The Greatest of Fears
by John Jude Farragut
Summary: A cheetah warrior is given the worst order of all: Go to Narnia. As if that weren't bad enough, he has to travel with a bloviating Narnian horse. Soon, their journey becomes a steady stream of nightmares, including betrayal, deception, and a disaster that threatens to wipe out a town. And all that happens long before they get to Narnia. (COMPLETE!)
1. The Cheetah and His Horse

_**A/n:**_ _This story takes place after the events of_ The Horse and His Boy. _All canon material belongs to C.S. Lewis; the rest is mine._

* * *

 **The cheetah** loped onto the porch and let out a sigh of delight. What better time of day than now? The family was gone for the afternoon, his errands were over, and the cat kept vigil on the porch while the city of Palár sweated all along the road below. It was the proper thing to do.

Faraji knelt down to an alabaster bowl that sat between his forepaws, and he lowered his head just enough to lap up the water and to watch all the passersby on the road. Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He lifted his head, water dripping from his chin, as a man ascended the stairs. His skin was sun-baked, his arms shaped with hard muscle, and a thin beard lined his jaw and chin.

Faraji fidgeted a little at the sight of him. The man always seemed to be looking for a corner in which to hide. He stood tall with a stoic look on his face—the same look everyone else had in Erizad—but his eyes kept trailing back to the letter in his hands. It was a small card with a wax seal that looked to have melted in the sun.

Faraji cleared his throat, and the man fidgeted. He gathered himself and raised two fingers to his forehead in a salute. "Good afternoon, Faraji. I have a letter of urgent business for the Mareshah."

"I can see that, Adan. I'm not blind."

The man's dark eyes flicked down at the letter. He waited for the cheetah to break his gaze. "Shall I open it for you?"

"Is my name on it?"

"No, but—"

"Clip it to my necklace. I will deliver it to the Mareshah when he returns."

"But the seal belongs to—"

"I don't care whose seal it is, Adan. We have no excuse opening my master's mail—and I almost got caught opening it the last time."

The man knelt onto the step and clipped the sealed letter to the golden band hanging from the leather necklace. "Faraji, I know you hear things. Promise me you'll tell me if anything is wrong."

"I don't make promises." Faraji gazed out at the horizon, paying no further attention to the man. "Send my regards to your cheetah. Safa owes me that book he promised me. And I ask that you stop being so curious, lest my master and his wife render your services unnecessary. Good afternoon."

The man squinted at him in curiosity. "What book?"

Faraji's voice rose to a growl. " _Good_ _afternoon_."

The man let out a sigh as he turned and walked down the stairs. As he disappeared around one of the sandstone buildings, the cheetah lifted his head and gazed into the road below. It was good to be in control: Not even a fly would loop over his head without his permission.

And then he thought about the letter. The seal was enough to make his heart beat faster. Etched in the clay was what looked like a spray of fire or a bush with ears and a face (what kind of bush would have a face, that was anyone's guess). Five letters with this seal showed up; whenever they did, the Mareshah's face would fall. Faraji thought trouble was on the way, but it never seemed to come.

Calormene refugees settled the low desert five centuries ago—men, women and talking beasts who fled the army and slave trade of the Tisroc (may he drop dead, and the sooner the better). Calormen had always vowed to level Erizad, including the city of Palár and the citadel of Andur to the southeast, but they never did. Erizad knew how to take care of itself, and Calormen knew it. There was nothing that made Erizad worry.

Until the North came to them.

Faraji felt the letter tug on his necklace as he let out a shaky breath. Any news from the North was trouble. If the Erizadi felt any twinge of curiosity about matters of the North, they were always rid of it. Terrible things happened up there, and rumors were never far from the truth.

 _I refuse to open my master's mail,_ Faraji said to himself. _But the longer he's gone, the more I'm tempted._

* * *

 **The Mareshah** brushed a hand through his short black hair and let out a sigh. The whole letter was burnt into his memory by now, and the wrinkles in his shaven face deepened with a growing frown. Three months ago, he took back the citadel of Andur from the Calormenes, and he had lost 700 men in the many-moon campaign. Now a letter had come from the North—another sorrow to add to his list.

His wife took the letter in hand and read each handwritten line to herself. As she reached the end of the letter, her whisper rose into a startled murmur. "Reza, do you understand what this means?"

A grim smile tugged on the Mareshah's face. "Besides the fact that Faraji has earned a whipping? He knows better than to read my letters."

"You know what I mean. How can you send him on this mission?"

"We have no choice, Nazira. I've spent two years looking for medicine, and to no avail. If we don't send Faraji to retrieve the only medicine that has a chance of working, Rafik will surely die."

"Reza, you cannot let them order you about. You are a Mareshah. You are a master of soldiers."

"I'm also a father. I must do _something_ to help my son. As it is, I am not disposable. I have to send someone who is."

At that, the sound of pawfalls echoed in the hall. The Mareshah sat upright in his chair, squaring his shoulders and interlacing his fingers, as Faraji rounded the corner. "Is there anything I can do for you, _mehan?"_

"One thing at a time," the Mareshah said. "Did the boys enjoy their story?"

A smile lifted the cheetah's whiskers. "Navid fell asleep in the middle of it. I suppose I should take it as a compliment." After a pause, his smile and whiskers fell. "I don't know that my tale helped Rafik. He was still in a lot of pain."

"His own body is at war," the Mareshah said. "All you can do is comfort him. But if all goes well, you might never need to comfort him again."

Faraji lifted his head. "Then you found the medicine he needs."

"We have. The man who owns the medicine is willing to part with it—only if you go north to bring it back here."

The cat's smile fell. "Could they not have delivered it to us?"

"Of course, and why they didn't is beyond me. I'm sorry, Faraji, but we have no choice in the matter. Omar's treatments have had no effect—and the letter asked for you specifically."

"Why me?"

Reza shook his head. "Unknown. You will meet a Narnian horse named Philip early tomorrow morning; he will accompany you all the way to Cair Paravel."

Faraji's head darted up, his ears standing upright. His eyes widened in the dim light, and his jaw lowered in horror, lips quivering. The sound of his heart slamming against his chest pulsed in his ears. "The medicine is in Narnia?"

Reza nodded slowly. "High King Peter sent the letter. It seems he wants to give you medicine in return for your services."

Faraji gave a low shudder. "Upon my honor, I would rather die than go there."

"Would you rather disobey my order and face your punishment?"

"No, _mehan!_ Poor thanks that would be to the man who saved my life. Even so, there are greater things to fear than your anger."

The Mareshah sighed and lowered his head. "I know," he said. "Anyone wanting to visit Narnia would be a fool." When he lifted his head again, his eyes were lined with creases. "As it is, you are not the one who's dying. Rafik needs you. I need you to complete this task—knowing full well what will happen to you if you do not succeed."

Faraji trembled at him, but a sigh fell from his chest. "Very well, _mehan,"_ he said. "I will go. It . . . It is the proper thing to do."

* * *

 **Faraji tossed** to his left and let out a grunt. He gnawed at the leather straps along his side, but the itch didn't go away—it just moved elsewhere. The bags strapped to his sides carried all he needed—a map, the letter, the book, canteens of water to sustain him until he got to River Lune—and the leather bags kept tickling his fur and making him growl in frustration. He had worn them all evening to get used to them; better to start earlier than now, since they wouldn't fall from his sides for weeks.

Faraji lay atop the stairs, watching the dome of stars turn over his head. He was too restless to sleep, and he feared. He hoped the Mareshah and the family were all awake and afraid for him. They all said they would worry for him and await his safe return, but he was just a servant—less than a servant, just a beast with duties. He would be replaced soon enough.

 _Stop it, Faraji. Self-pity is not becoming. You are a Mareshah's jamira. Act like one and stop being so improper._

A _clop-clop-clop_ echoed down the barren street. The shadow of a horse rounded the corner. The cheetah trotted down the stairs, and his leather bags tensed and slackened against his muscled sides.

The horse trotted up to him and came to a stop. "Whinny-inny. Good morning, spotted one! I am Philip, the proud steed of King Edmund the Just of Narnia."

Faraji scoffed. "Proud you are, Narnian. That's how you compensate for being a fool in a nation of fools."

Philip stared open-mouthed at him. "I say, your arrogance is not becoming."

"I do not speak humbly to my enemies," said Faraji. "Only the people of Erizad know the true Aslan, and all who pervert the truth are to be treated as enemies. But no matter. I am the _jamira_ of Mareshah Reza Munir. I am also a teacher of writing and numbers to children, a lauded and distinguished scholar of Narnian literature, and a recipient of the Red Diamond for excellence in battle. My master and friends call me Faraji; you, however may address me as _mehan_. It is a title of respect."

"I know what _mehan_ means, and only Aslan himself is worthy of the title. Now, then, let us be off to Narnia and the North! Pip pip!"

Faraji glowered at him but said nothing.

He turned back to look at the house once more. _Peace be upon you, mehan,_ he said to himself. _If I come back alive, I will hold you accountable for letting me travel with this bloviating fool. Be sure of it._

The cheetah and his horse trotted down the street The cold sand stiffened his shanks and felt harder on Faraji's paws, and the frown on his muzzle deepened into a scowl.

"You've never been to Narnia, have you?" said Philip.

"What does that matter?"

"As long as you and I are traveling together, we might as well get to know each other."

"There are worse fates, I suppose," said Faraji under his breath. "No, I've never been, and I'm not looking forward to it."

"What? Of all the people in the world who would long for cooler breezes, surely it would be the people of this waterless beach. Why would you not look forward to Narnia?"

"That is none of your concern. Now may we talk about something that interests me?"

"Hrmmpff…" The horse shook his head, his mane reflecting the moonlight. "Very well, although I don't think sun and sand would interest me."

"Don't worry. This is a question that even you can answer: Why does Peter insist on summoning me north instead of sending the medicine to us?"

"You may be in Erizad, but you must still address the High King of Narnia by his title. To answer your question, His Majesty has not explained it to me. I was asked only to take you to Narnia."

"I should like a word with that barbarian."

"You will have to wait, spotted one. He is still in Anvard. Verily, I was summoned by someone greater than King Peter, even greater than I," the horse said. "We have been summoned by the great king of kings, Aslan himself."

Faraji sighed. "Delightful."

"How can you speak with such indifference? Does not the name fill you with wonder? Do you not bow at the sound of his name?"

"Of course I do. Five times a day, I do. That changes nothing. Aslan is just a man—a silly and foolish man."

"A _man?_ Aslan—a man?" The horse threw back his head. "Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA! A _man_ , he says!"

Faraji's ears swiveled. "Are you choking, or do I amuse you?"

"Whinny-inny—! My apologies, spotted one, but how could you not know what Aslan is? He is not silly and foolish. Nor is he a man beast that he should fall and die. He is a lion—the Great Lion."

"'The Great' _what?"_

Philip threw back his head once more. "Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA!"

"Confound it, Narnian, do you wish to wake up the whole of Erizad?"

"Oh—I _am_ sorry, my friend. Upon my honor, I have never met someone who reveres the Great Lion but knows so little of him."

"Then enlighten me with your wisdom. It shouldn't take you long. Why should I think grand thoughts of him? What does he look like?"

"What does he _look_ like? He—oh! He is too wonderful to express in words. Every time I see him, it is better than the time before. He is beautiful and terrifying. I tremble, yet I am happy. I'm meat to be devoured and a prince to be served. I feel his fury at me and his love for me. And it all beams at me like the rays of the midday sun. Oh, forgive me for rambling, but you understand, surely?"

"Not at all."

"What? I say, O cheetah with many spots and titles, you know so little of what is so. But just wait until you get to Narnia. When you meet him—"

"I have no interest in meeting him. My master's boy is dying, and the only medicine that can help him is being held by the Lord of Narnia."

Philip snorted. "How jolly, the way you talk of him."

"Life is not always 'jolly.' We do as we're told, or we suffer the consequences. That is the way of the world."

"Spotted one, I have never met a creature more miserable than you. The Great Lion is the one who has sent you to Narnia, and you care nothing for him at all?"

"All I care about is my master's son. I will render whatever services are needed so long as I can retrieve the medicine and bring it home. After that, I want nothing more to do with you or any of your kind, or any of the Kings and Queens of Cair Paravel, or Aslan himself. Now since we will be traveling together for an extended period of time, we might as well walk on—and _quietly!"_

"Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA! Well, I am glad we have had this conversation, spotted one."

"Oh?"

"I have heard tales of your people, but now that I have met you, I don't find you to be so formidable, after all."

Faraji glowered at him. _Don't test me, Narnian._

The two walked on in silence, down the winding sand road whose cold hardened their hooves and paws, and the city gates appeared around a corner. Two tall men with blue uniforms stood on either side of the gate, spears pointing skyward in their hands.

They walked on without a word as the gates creaked open, and Faraji thanked the guards with a nod of his head. A few miles down the road, as open sands stretched into the starry sky, Faraji said, "Do you need a map?"

"No, for I am guided by the Great Lion—that, and my experience in traveling through Calormen," Philip said. "It is a long road, but we will be sped along by the Lion; we must strive to enjoy it—and hope we find some good companions with whom we can share our adventures, eh? Ah, but I do long for the fields of Narnia. Have you ever been blessed enough to roll in the grass? I should fancy a good long roll, after spending so many weeks walking through this waterless beach..."

Faraji said nothing as Philip rambled. The horse's words faded into the background as Faraji retreated into the sanctuary of his thoughts, and the cheetah turned his head to the northwest. _The lake is the only water for miles around. Once I arrive, I can take shelter in the caves.  
_

A half-hour passed, and the horse was still rambling. "…and so I will make sure to let you in on my errands. If we share the burdens of our work, we can share each other's glories and offer up our tribute to the Great Lion."

Faraji swung his head over his shoulder, staring back at Palár. The city wall was a black blot on the dawn-lit horizon. _They won't hear it...not from that distance._

With an arrogant smile he returned to the horse. His voice lowered to a growl, and his muscular shoulders flexed. "By all means, offer up your own tribute. Until then, you have a new mission."

Philip let out a timid whinny. "What are you talking about?"

"You will take me to Lake Lune."

The horse scoffed. "I will not. Your mission is to go to Narnia. My mission is to take you there. By the Lion's mane, I will not let anything deter us from that mission—not even you."

Faraji's jaw lowered slightly, baring his fangs. "Yes, you will."

The cheetah roared and leapt into the air.

Faraji's fangs gleamed like crescent moons in the blue dawn. Philip screamed and slipped in the sand; he scrambled to his hooves and came face-to-face with two paws full of claws. Faraji's claws sank into the horse's neck muscles, drawing blood at every tip.

The horse screeched and reared up on his hind legs, flailing side to side. Faraji flung through the air like a tattered flag. Tendons and joints popped as the cheetah wriggled and thrashed his hind legs, trying to sink his claws into the horse's side. When he got his grip, Philip screamed and toppled backward. The sandy road shook with a thunderous crash as he landed on his side. He kicked and screamed until his voice cracked, and Faraji roared again and clamped his fanged jaws around the horse's neck.

"WHINNY-INNY-INNY! OH, HELP, ASLAN! HELP!"

"He can't help you, Narnian!" roared Faraji. "Take me to Lake Lune!"

"WHINNY-INNY-INNY-EE-EE-OW-OW-OW!"

"Take me there NOW!"

"INNY-INNY-EE-OW-OW— _ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT!"_ Faraji pulled out his claws and loosed his grip on Philip's neck, spitting a wad of blood and hair. Beads of fresh blood glistened in the morning blue light, and a cloud of foam lined the horse's mouth. Faraji's chest heaved up and down as he gathered his breath and wriggled into the saddle. He kept his claws unsheathed, pressing the tips against the horse's shoulders.

"Take me there…and I will let you go…or I _will_ give you something to be afraid of."

Philip forced his wobbly legs to stand, his voice trembling in unison with his legs. "You haven't heard the end of this!"

"Perhaps," Faraji said. "But if you turn me in, or persuade me to go with you to Narnia, remember this: A dead horse will not talk—he will just fill my stomach. Now go! Yah! YAH!"

The horse whinnied and broke off the path, rushing to a gallop over the dunes.


	2. Who Will Go to Narnia?

**The sun** peaked its head over the hills and tossed its mane of golden rays across the sky. The waving sands scrolled beneath Philip's hooves as the horse charged with all his strength, and Faraji's claws dug into the horse's muscled sides, guiding him with every painful nudge.

 _I suppose I owe him something for this,_ Faraji thought. _Something other than his life._

Philip galloped over a dune, and the sands sloped down toward a cluster of palms in the distance. Further back, along the horizon, hills rose up with shadows cast across their slopes.

"There it is!" Faraji said. "Faster, horse, faster!"

Foam clouded Philip's muzzle and lips. His sides squeezed harder and harder to take in breath.

"HOO—OW!"

Faraji's head cocked to the side. "What?!"

Two big gasps. "HOO—OWK!"

Faraji batted the horse's side. "Speak up, you stupid—AAAAGH!"

Pain burst up and down his shoulder as an arrow plunged into a ball of muscle. The force knocked him off the saddle and sent him plummeting to the scrolling ground. Sand and sky spun around his head as the arrow's shaft snapped, and the sand rushed up to meet him as Philip screamed—

"—ARA—EE!"

A burst of stars filled his eyes as pain seared his shoulder, and the whole world fell into darkness.

* * *

 **A splash** of water across his face, and Faraji flinched awake. He gasped and coughed, blinking water away as the dark rock walls sharpened into focus. At once a lance of pain shot up from his shoulder, and he let out a cry. Stars danced around his blurry eyes, and his humming ears felt thick, as if they were stuffed with cloth. His back and side rested on a bed of rocks; every twitch made his joints ache in protest. The voices of men he knew echoed as if in a great palace. He knew they had carried him and guided Philip into the shade of the cavern.

The sound of boots crunching against dirt and rock made his ears swivel, and a groan fell from his chest as he stared at the clean-shaven man in a blue uniform. A tremble rippled through his breath. _"Mehan..."_

Philip let out an angry snort. His eyes glared at the Mareshah. "It is a good thing you are a man of the law, Sir, because I cannot imagine that you would pardon a man who attacks an animal in such a cowardly way. Whoever it was, Sir _,_ I hope that you arrest him and leave his body to rot in the sun."

Faraji grunted, flicking his eyes toward the horse. "Do you not understand, Narnian?" The cheetah's voice rasped like two rocks rubbing together. "They were not...they were not Calormenes. The Mareshah...and his men...they followed us out of Palár."

Philip's jaw fell. He aimed his glassy eyes at the uniformed man. "You?" The horse let out a soft neigh. _"You_ attacked your own animal?"

"He tortured you to get out of his mission," said Reza, staring at Faraji. "It is only proper that he pay for his crimes. By the laws of Erizad, he will die—after I make him feel the pain you felt at his hand."

"What?!" Philip whinnied and reared up on his hind legs, but two pikemen held their blades at the horse's breast. Philip landed on all fours, snorting and flaring his nostrils at the uniformed men. "Confound it, Sir! What about your son?"

"Don't bring him into this. My only concern is that Faraji is punished."

"And who will go to Narnia? Who else will be summoned to fetch the medicine? You know he was summoned by the Lord of Narnia himself. You cannot just execute him—not as long as your son's life depends on him."

"I have no choice! If I do not obey him and put Faraji to death, Aslan will kill me."

"What good will come of killing your own animal? Your son _will_ die if he doesn't get help. What do you expect Aslan to do—raise your son back to life because you struck your animal dead?"

The man's lower lip began to tremble. A quavering breath fell from his chest, and he gnashed his teeth. "If that is the will of Aslan, then so be it. But I cannot do what I think is practical—only what I know is right."

He looked down at Faraji. The cheetah whimpered and sobbed in pain. "Was it not enough that my son is dying? How long has he lain in bed, waiting for a cure?"

Faraji shuddered and blinked more tears out of his eyes.

"HOW LONG?!"

The cheetah winced. "Two years."

The man let out a sharp breath. "And you value your life over his—enough to erase the last two years of our lives."

" _Mehan,_ I would rather die than go North!"

"I would grant you that, if only for your sake. I would not want you to go that far north even to face _him._ But my son still needs you, and if Philip has the ear of the thrones of Cair Paravel, we can only hope Aslan will be merciful to us all. You will go to Narnia, and you will fetch the medicine. Then, when you return to Palár, we will talk about your life."

Faraji's voice trembled. "But _mehan—"_

"If you disobey me again, Faraji, I will ask Aslan to kill you. I suggest you heed that if you value your life."

Faraji's eyes furrowed, and he broke down sobbing, but Reza paid him no attention. He walked toward Philip and glanced at the soldiers.

"Bind his wounds," he said to the pikemen. "After that, we will leave."

Philip glowered at him. "Will you not even soothe his pain? Have you no ointment for his wounds? By the Lion's mane, he is your _servant."_

"After what he has done, he does not deserve to be called my servant. If you want to find shelter by nightfall, head northeast."

"But Sir—"

"If you are so concerned about time, run faster."

Philip snorted. "You are a heartless people."

Reza slipped away, and the rest of his men followed him out of the cavern.

* * *

 **Faraji lay** like a rag in Philip's saddle as the horse trudged his way northeast. The afternoon sun stifled their breath like the heat from an oven; the water in Philip's saddle bags was lukewarm and tasted of metal. The canteens that hung from the leather straps on Faraji's sides were empty before noon, and Faraji had to tumble off Philip's back and drink from the stream. Every pawfall ignited a flame of pain—pain from the wounds his master's men had loosely bound.

The evening sun hovered over the horizon by the time Philip and Faraji loped to the shore. The Great Eastern Ocean glimmered and flickered like a sheet of bronze. A salty breeze chilled their limbs and ruffled the horse's mane. Up and down the shore, Erizadi men, women and children meandered in their wind-whipped tunics, their faces wiped of all emotion. Only a few dared to wade in the water until their husbands and fathers called them back.

Philip let out a curious whinny. "Upon my honor, I did not realize that such a beautiful sight would go so unappreciated. Must your people suppress every ounce of joy? Or do they choose to be miserable?"

Faraji gave no indication that he had heard. He sat with his back turned to Philip, his face hidden from view. The horse knelt upon spindly legs and lay upon the sand, his heavy belly making a soft thud upon the ground. "I saved your life, spotted one," he said. "The least you could do is converse with me in a proper manner."

There was no reply.

Philip gave a restless nicker. "What have I done to you, that I should deserve your hostility?"

"Aslan is your king. I should wonder why the whole world doesn't hate Narnia." Faraji lifted himself to the side and lay on his belly. A wayward paw drew loops in the sand. "I have no hostility toward you. All I have is pity."

Philip scoffed. " 'Pity'? Is the whole nation of Narnia so stupid that you deign to pity us?"

"Indeed, you cannot hope to match my education. We are a proud and intelligent nation, and we offer no apology." Faraji let out a sigh. With a swipe, he erased the sketch in the sand, and he turned his gaze back to the ocean. "Your lack of education does not deserve my pity—not when there are better reasons."

Philip snorted. "At the risk of insulting me again, I suppose you should tell me what they are."

Faraji paused. His paw hovered over the sand, as if it were also lost in thought. "I know the stories from your country, Narnian," he said. His voice was low and soft. "Living under such a king as Aslan is no better than a curse."

Philip gave a light whinny. Faraji knew it was a chuckle. "I daresay I am the happiest creature in all the world, living and breathing in Aslan's kingdom."

"I can't imagine why, as his leadership and sense of justice are so incomprehensibly stupid." After a pause, Faraji turned to face the ocean. "Try to imagine that you committed a murder. Suppose you crushed me under your hoof, killing me for no reason."

Philip let out a whinny. "I could think of a reason."

Faraji ignored that remark. "If Aslan is the good and noble king you say he is, he would _have_ to punish you. He would have every right to tear you to ribbons. Would you not be afraid of him? Would you not wake up every day and wonder if he would kill you today?"

Philip snorted. A puff of sand rose and fell beneath his face. "The very idea that Aslan would want you to cower like mice before a starving cat—upon my honor, I have never heard of anything so appalling. You truly are as miserable as you sound. Well, let me tell you: Aslan is not this monster you think him to be. You will not just deliver the medicine back to your boy, but you will bid farewell to Erizad for the last time and live as a friend of mine in Narnia."

"I am not the fool you take me for!" shouted Faraji. "I know the stories of your king. That Calormene brat, Aravis—she drugged the slave of her stepmother, and that slave was whipped. And Aslan repaid her by attacking her and ripping her back open with his own claws."

Philip was silent. His mouth had hung open to prepare his reply, but his mouth closed of its own accord.

"Oh, yes," Faraji said with a cold laugh. "I know. Everyone in Erizad knows. And you wonder why we live on this waterless beach—as far away from Aslan as possible."

Philip nickered. "He is still good. He is the King, spotted one."

"Confound it, Narnian," said Faraji. "You are too stupid to understand just how stupid you are. Your own King hunts and attacks his own subjects. He terrifies the innocent, threatens young children, and lets half his enemies run free while he tortures and attacks the rest. He sentenced his own country to a hundred-year winter and allowed his own nemesis to rule with impunity. And not a single one of you would even think to demand an explanation. Instead, all you think to do is fawn over him. _That,_ Narnian, is why your people have my pity. You deserve nothing less."

The cheetah swung around and marched away.

"Faraji!" Philip shouted. "I saved your life! The least you can do is save your master's son!"

The cheetah paid him no heed. His ears swiveled to hear Philip say, "What incomparable—!" before muttering something the cheetah could not discern. The cheetah stopped at the embankment, a ten-foot dune of sand guarded by palms and littered by outcroppings of rocks. Water burbled down an outcropping and puddled onto the sand. Faraji lapped it up to soothe his sore voice. A strange taste lingered on his tongue after each swallow, but he drank deeper and deeper until he could hold no more.

Stars began to flicker in the sky above his head as he sloshed with a stomach full of water away from the shore. The taste on his tongue lingered with every dry swallow. A wave of worry threatened to crash over him, but the sight of stars in the night sky lulled him to a shallow sleep.

* * *

 **Faraji kicked** the sand away and scrambled onto his haunches. He swiveled his head in all directions. Something growled at him in a dream, but nothing was there. A thick ringing filled his ears, and sweat soaked the fur of his forehead. His meal of fish threatened to pour out of his stomach, and he gulped in air to keep it down.

The cheetah kneaded the sand with his forepaws and sprawled along the sand. He wriggled and squirmed, kicking out a rut beneath his body. No matter which way he tossed, mounds of sand poked his sides and neck, making his spine ache in protest.

The dome of stars drifted a quarter-turn in the sky as a wave of sleepiness overtook him at long last. He dozed off, drifting in and out of sleep. Whether it was a dream or a waking moment, he did not know, but he noted to himself that he felt worse than before.

Faraji started awake. The sun blazed in his eyes, his eyes stung with sweat, and his cheek lay in a puddle of blood.


	3. A Wayside Misadventure

_**A/n:** I'll be the first to admit it: Three months between updates is _much _too long._ _I've wanted to update this story, because I like what it's becoming and I'm excited with how I think it'll turn out. But what with school, work, and moving into a new house, I've had my hands full._

 _Now, though, I'm finally catching a quick break—just enough time to write and post a long chapter. With any luck, my updates will become more and more frequent. For now, I hope you enjoy this chapter—though you might want to consider yourself warned: It gets pretty graphic._

* * *

" **Wake up!"**

Philip started awake. The horse blinked, and a uniformed man slipped into focus. Gold trim adorned his blue coat, and a rapier hung from his belt. Thunderheads rumbled above his head, their anvils gilded by the light of the morning sun. Long shadows darkened the creases in his clean-shaven face, and his high voice jarred Philip's ears like a slap to the cheek.

Philip gave a grunt. "Confound it, man," he said. "Who are you?"

"Mohmar Sharif, lieutenant in the Erizadi patrol. I'm escorting you."

"To where?"

"Anywhere but here. Animals are forbidden to use the beach as a stable—especially when they're derelicts."

Philip started to speak, but he held his tongue. He rose up on all four spindly legs and shook the sand out of his mane. "As a derelict, do I have the right to ask you a question?"

Mohmar glowered at him. "Just follow me."

Philip gave him a snort and trudged through the sand. A stream burbled to his right, and his jaws throbbed with thirst, but the man gave no indication that he would stop for anything.

"Did you happen to see a cheetah prowling about?" said Philip. "Talks like a scholar. Has an eternal scowl on his face."

"No. Keep moving."

With a sigh, he gave the stream a longing eye—and at that moment, his stomach churned in protest. A strange odor wafted downwind, threatening to make him gag. He took in another breath, and the odor strengthened. "Sir, is there something in the water?"

The man sniffed the air, and his face softened. "I don't know." He paused, taking in another breath. "If there is, what would you call it?"

"Without knowing for sure?" Philip said, inhaling a deep breath. "I'd call it death."

The man's face hardened again. "The last time an animal said that, most everyone in its village was dead within a week."

Philip stopped in his tracks, staring wide-eyed at the officer. "What could do such a thing?"

Mohmar shook his head. "All I know is what my people call it: 'Red Death.' Within less than a day, everyone who drank the water was bleeding from the nose and mouth, and most of them were dead by the next day." The man saw the horse's agape mouth but paid it no heed. He aimed a finger at the line of buildings on the horizon. "Do you see that village? Go. Tell them to stay away from the stream."

Philip turned a wary eye toward the man. "Why should I obey you?"

"Because in Erizad, you answer to us—and we may be in great need of your help. Besides, your friend may be in trouble. If you go into the village, you might find him there."

There was a pause. Philip gazed out at the horizon, staring at the buildings that glowed in the morning light.

 _He's right._ The horse loosed a light breath and started to trudge south. _Disease or no disease, I have to find him._

* * *

 **A mile** of sand had lapsed behind him when the horse's charge slowed to a gait. A red blot had scrolled beneath his belly. He swung his head over his shoulder, and his heart slammed against his chest; he knew the unearthly stain was blood.

He swiveled his head to follow the trail, and it crested the top of a dune. Philip surged up the mound, slipping as the ground sloped beneath him. Philip's heart sank in waves of dread: A tawny blur inched toward the village, leaving a crimson trail behind.

"Have mercy," he muttered. _"FARAJI!"_

The cheetah gave no reply.

Philip heaved himself over the mound and followed the trail. As he approached Faraji's spotted frame, the cheetah swung his head—and Philip whinnied in horror.

Blood oozed out of the cheetah's nose, staining and dribbling down his chin. His mouth hung open, gathering and loosing a weak breath, and out came a pitiful mew of words. "Something…in the water. Did you—?"

"No. I was told to go into the village. Tell me—what can I do?"

Faraji gave a wet cough, and blood oozed out of his mouth. "Help me…"

With a breath, the horse pried open his jaws and closed them around Faraji's neck, as if the cheetah were a cub hanging from his mother's jaws. He lay limply in the horse's mouth, and the pounding of Philip's hooves lulled him into a stupor.

* * *

 **Philip charged** into the village square as the rain started to fall.

The horse's hooved drummed the sett stones as large drops pelted him from head to tail. Buildings one and two stories high towered around him, all with signs and flags written in a language he could not read. Men and beasts poured onto the street from their shelters and shouted in complaint, drowning out the grumbling thunder, but the horse knew some of their words: Narnians were not welcome there, and they would let him know it.

Philip paid it no attention. He lowered Faraji onto a stone bench next to a gushing fountain, and he turned to face the crowd. "I am Philip, steed of King Edmund the Just of Narnia, and we—"

The uproar grew deafening. Philip's ears swiveled backward to block the noise. A long-haired young man with a dour face strode forward. His blue uniform was adorned with gold, but his collar was buttonless—he had no great rank to speak of. "I am Tarin Sharaz, the Mareshah of Rasul. What is—" Without warning the man fell silent, his jaw hanging open. One look at the cheetah's bloody face, and he swung to his left. _"Mehan! W_ e need your help!"

The door to a two-story residence groaned open, and a silver-haired man in a white tunic burst through the doorway. One look at the cheetah's face, and sorrow filled the man's eyes. "Faraji," he whispered, his voice trailing away. "How long?"

Faraji groaned and coughed. "…Last night."

The silver-haired man turned away. He waved a hand toward the window, and four men and women filed out of the residence. They unfolded and carried a canvas cot strung between two poles. The doctor lifted Faraji's body onto the cot, and the cheetah was carried out of the plaza. All he did was stare at Philip, his eyes filled with horror, and the door boomed shut.

Without warning, the man pointed at Faraji and beamed his angry glare at Philip. "Is that how a hero is to be treated: cradled like a cub by a Narnian steed of none?"

"Harrumph-ph! I can assure you, my good man, that I am no steed of none. I am the steed of King Edmund the Just. Now unless you want us to catch the ague, I recommend that we move into warmer environs, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't care if you're the Sarazen himself. I will deal with you on my terms. Now unless you have brought us Queen Lucy's cordial, or you can wield the magic of Aslan the Man, I have no use for you."

"First of all, I should inform you that Aslan is no man—he is the Great Lion. Second of all, have your people done _nothing_ to locate the source of the illness?"

"There is no need," said the man. "This village was doomed to pay for its sins, and that day has come. Be he man or lion, the judgment of Aslan has fallen upon us."

Philip's mouth fell open. "I beg your pardon?"

"Need I discuss the sins of this village at length? Two men murdered a steed. My son bedded another man's wife. A coalition of cheetahs ate a Talking Beast for a meal. The God of Narnia has sentenced us to this misery, to make us pay for our crimes against him."

"Confound it! Are you _all_ alike?"

"What did you expect, Narnian? When our own people are drowning in moral turpitude, what can we expect but to drown in our own blood?"

"You know nothing about Aslan, and unfortunately, you're not the first. Besides, this disease is not what you think. There was a stench in the water; something must have died. All we need do is go upstream."

"We are the northernmost village in Erizad. Everything to the north is Calormen."

"Confound it, man, these people are _dying!_ Send a militia to go north!"

"There aren't enough men! Everyone in this village is too sick or too busy tending to the sick. Two fifths of the men and animals are bleeding from the nose and mouth—a hundred creatures who are dying even as we speak—and listen! Even grown men are crying out in pain, and it's getting worse by the hour."

The horse nodded. "Right," he said. "Then _I'll_ go to Calormen."

Tarin lifted a hand and strode forward. "I'll join you. You'll need help."

"Much obliged, my good man," said Philip. "At least there is _someone_ with a measure of sense in this country."

"No!" The doctor grabbed Tarin by the arm. "You're needed here."

"You have other aides. The Narnian has none."

"You know what the Calormenes do to their prisoners. If they see you, they will torture you before they kill you."

"Father, you have sent messengers to the nearby towns, and no one has answered. Once they find out what is happening here, none of them _will_ answer. Please…let me go to Calormen. If I can help the Narnian succeed in his quest, perhaps Aslan will spare me. If I die, then it is proper for him to strike me down."

Philip nickered. "What a cheery lot you are."

The doctor flicked a glare at Philip, then drained a helpless sigh from his lungs. With a sigh, he put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Begone. Both of you."

Tarin nodded and heaved a leg over Philip's side.

* * *

 **Faraji curled** inward and gave a heavy cough. His breaths were ragged and shallow. He brushed a paw over his face, wiping the uppermost layer of blood from his face. _Is this what I was destined for?_ he thought. _To die a pointless, ignoble death—before I have lived a full span of years, no less? Is this what manner of good and kind thing Aslan is praised for? If so, I suppose I would rather take his evil._

Faraji glanced out the window. Six hours had passed since Philip and Tarin charged north, and the storm continued to rage in the village. Lightning filled the room with light as bright as day, and thunder shook the walls like a giant pounding the residence with a hammer. _How could they possibly survive in a storm like this? It will surely strike them dead—assuming those pointy-shoed torturers don't do it first._

The door groaned open, and all he heard were footfalls. A somber mood followed the footfalls down the hall, and the curtain to his room was pushed back. Four women carried someone in on a cot, and the creature was coughing and shuddering in pain.

It was a cheetah, a soldier's necklace adorning his chest, his ebony eyes staring with awe and dismay at Faraji.

"How did you—" The other cheetah's voice was high and youthful. "I cry your pardon; I should not have been so rude. You don't know me, _mehan—"_

"Nor do I wish to."

"—But my name is Durik. I was leading a coalition out of Calormen. My brothers and I stopped to get a drink from the same river; it was just before sunset, and unbeknownst to us, the contamination had just begun. My second-in-command and I took the first drink, and the taste was foul beyond description."

Faraji's face showed no relief. "...Is he well?"

Durik nodded. "So are the rest of my brothers. But I should wonder what brought you this far north, to suffer this fate with us."

Faraji said nothing. He stared out the window; through the thunder and rain came the sobs of women and children.

"Do you hear that?" Durik growled. "Such wretched noise."

Faraji coughed again, and bile rose up in his throat. His mouth had just begun to bleed again. "Surely…they are distraught…at what is happening. Someone must…" He fought back a cough—"Someone must have died."

"It is hardly that," Durik said. "That old man keeps babbling about the 'judgment of Aslan.' He should be above such talk."

One of Faraji's ears swiveled. "Why?"

"He is filling his people's hearts with needless terror and pain."

"Is it needless?" Faraji shuddered, fighting back the urge to retch. "Aslan is the god of Narnia... and of all nations of the earth. He can do what he wants. If that is what people need to hear...then let them hear it...that they might obey him."

Durik scoffed. "I used to talk like that." He winced in pain, his face twisting into a grimace. When he lifted his head, a cruel smile pulled on his bloodstained face. "But I came to my senses, my friend. I realized that no monarch who sentences us to such a miserable fate could be worthy of my deference."

"Why do you tell me this?"

Durik's eyes darkened. "I know the story of your master's son—how he has lain in bed the last two years, suffering and groaning in pain with no one to help him. And I know what Aslan has done to his people and his allies—how he attacks them, how he tortures them, how he terrifies them into submission. No leader can be allowed to do such things to his own people. And now, this—a red death, rivers of blood flowing from our own bodies."

"You don't know...if Aslan cursed us."

"If he sat idly by and let it happen, he is guilty of aiding and abetting murder. But I know Aslan. I know his deeds, and I know how he leads his people."

"Then you would know...that killing us is within his right."

"I don't know that anymore. Whatever excuse he may give for his deeds, my brothers and I will not allow them to go unanswered—not for one more day."

Faraji shook his head. "Dare I ask…where this conversation is going?"

Durik smiled again. He coughed, and two streams of blood poured between his front fangs. The sight made Faraji glance away in dismay. _"Mehan,_ you are among the greatest of warriors and a scholar amongst your race, and you cannot comprehend what I am saying?"

Faraji paused, then his face. He knew what Durik meant, and the thought struck him with horror. "Make no mistake...I _wished_ for that. In the confines of my heart...daring not to utter it to a single soul...I wished it. But what creatures are we...to turn such a fantasy into a reality? Confound it, man...you're talking about assassinating the most powerful man in the world!"

"I'm talking about justice!" said Durik. "Aslan has committed high treason against the people of Erizad, and why should he not be held to account? No benevolent leader would allow such a thing to happen to us. Whatever reason he has for allowing this madness to come upon our people, I don't care! What he's done is _treason!"_

"Do you not understand the _madness_ of this quest? Who are _you,_ O frail and feeble beast, to even think that you could overthrow the god of Narnia?"

"Do you know _nothing_ about your history, _mehan?_ Do you not know what happened just fifteen years ago? It did not take an army—it took one witch, who was powerful and courageous enough, to do what had to be done! If she could do it, why no others?"

"Because Aslan rose again, you fool! He turned death on its head. He killed the Witch, and now he reigns in Narnia. If you were fortunate enough and foolish enough to assassinate the god of Narnia, the whole country would turn against you. War would be waged; cities would be overthrown. Erizad would cease to exist, and so would _you!"_

"Not if we go through Calormen. They wouldn't dare lay a hand on us."

"You're even greater a fool than I imagined!" said Faraji. _"They_ would want to kill him in our stead! And if you don't tell them what you're doing in their land, they would kill you, too!"

"Not if you help us," said Durik. "You know Calormen better than most of the people know their own country. You know the hazards; you know the escape routes; you know how to get us through Tashbaan. And with that bloviating cretin escorting you to Narnia, he can take us the rest of the way. If you persuade him that you're escorting refugees to Narnia, he would think himself a hero."

Faraji's angry eyes softened. "I must be a fool for even contemplating this."

Durik's voice dropped low as he leaned closer. "You know what has to be done. If you survive this ordeal, I implore you to join us. Or will you be like the cowards in this country, who tremble at the very name of Aslan without questioning anything he says?"

Faraji gave no reply.

* * *

 **Thunder cracked** over their heads, and the horse stumbled to a stop. "WAIT!"

Tarin hurtled into the horse's neck, scrabbling at the reins to gain his balance. "Damn it! What?"

Philip sloshed in the rain-soaked sand and swiveled around. "Look!"

Tarin lifted a hand to his face. Two hours of constant lightning, even in midday, left him half-blind and dazed. He blinked the rain out of his bleary eyes, and a weary smile gave way to a frown. "Calormene dogs!" he roared.

A turbaned man lay in a crook of the river, his fat-girdled frame pinned by rocks and trapped against a boulder. No arrow or spear stuck out of his belly. Tarin tumbled out of the saddle and knelt down, holding his nose as the smell of death wafted up to his face. The Calormene's clothes and face were stained light pink.

Tarin planted one foot backward and grabbed the man's wrists. "This was no accident," he said. "This man did not just fall over and die here. He was laid here." He gave a mighty tug, and the man's wet wrists slipped through. Tarin tumbled backward into the sloshing sand, spitting out water that tasted of decay. "Come, Narnian, help me!"

Philip took two steps backward, then charged and soared over the bend. He splashed along the shore, his hind legs slipping on the riverbank. A gust of wind pushed a wave up his neck. Foul water burst upon his face, making his tongue taste of death, but he lifted his muscular bulk out of the water. Lightning burst out of the sky and turned a palm tree into a smoking wick, and thunder roared like an angry giant, but he ignored it. Philip bit into the man's shirt as Tarin grabbed the man by the wrists. With a mighty heave, the man's body slid over the rocks and onto the sand.

"This way!" Tarin stabbed a finger over his shoulder. "Over here, where the ground has caved!"

Philip nodded and swiveled left, following Tarin's footsteps. A flicker of light cast a shadow over a yawning pit.

"Mind the edge!" Tarin roared over the wind. "Don't fall in!"

 _At last, an Erizadi who has the courtesy to treat me as one of his own._ Philip banked left at the edge of the hole, and he loosed his grip on the man's shirt. The man tumbled into the hole, splashing into the shallow water.

"Go upstream," said Tarin. "Is the water still bad?"

Philip loped back to the river, shaking another layer of water out of his hair and mane. He strode some yards upstream, smelling the water. "It is the smell of life!"

Even at that distance, Philip could see Tarin smile. The young man waved him back over.

"Help me!" he said to Philip. "If we can bury him, the Calormenes will not be able to use him again."

Philip nodded. He spun around, and his hind legs kicked up waves of sand.

The two dug through the afternoon and evening, long after the storm had broken. By nightfall, they had filled the cavity in the earth, and they rode south as the stars made their march across the night sky.

And it was by daybreak that the village came into view, and Philip's relief gave way to horror. Tarin had stepped away to relieve himself, or so he said; when he returned, his face and hands were stained with blood.

* * *

 **Faraji tipped** his head over the side, and he heaved blood over the edge of the table. His heavy coughs gave way to sobs as his bowels kept screaming in pain. One look at his belly made him cry harder; pustules had erupted and broken across his skin, protruding through his fur. He panted and writhed on the table, his head lolling to and fro.

A pang of horror stopped all the breath in Faraji's chest. Durik's eyes and mouth were closed, as if he were asleep, but his chest was still as a stone. Two women stood over him and laid a shroud over Durik's body, and Faraji loosed his pent-up breath. _So this is how Aslan deals with traitors._

At once, horror gave way to anger. _What manner of monster is this, that he should threaten or execute us with a horrid death? Is there no better means to satisfy justice and win allegiance?_

Tears poured out of his eyes, and a sob worked its way out of a blood-soaked cough. _How could this be happening to me?_ he said. _I obeyed my master, I served him in battle, and I'm going to Narnia. Was it all supposed to end like this? Am I doomed because of my misdeeds, doomed like the dead and dying in this cursèd place?_

No answers came. His frantic thoughts fogged his head until he returned to his stupor. And then he saw his master's son, a small boy crying in pain. He saw the doctors laboring over him, wondering what would cure him. He saw his family praying to Aslan night after night.

 _I cannot just go to Narnia!_

At that, searing hot pain rushed up Faraji's back. Stars flashed in his eyes as he howled in pain. The doctor and his aides rushed to his side.

Dreams and visions flickered in and out of existence. The boy he cared for crying in pain...Philip warning him that he must go north...his master threatening to kill him if he did not obey...the feeling of claws sinking into Philip's muscled back...

 _I will not…_

The doctor said something he could not discern. Throbs of white-hot pain spread to his belly. The memory of the boys' awestruck faces as Faraji read them their bedtime story. Rumors of Aslan tearing open the back of a girl. A doctor telling the Mareshah, "Unless he gets help, he may not live to see another birthday."

 _"Safe? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."_

A measure of peace fell over the cheetah. The pain loosened its stranglehold. Blood stopped pouring out of his face, and at last, and all was calm and quiet.

 _I will not let him die._

* * *

 **Faraji opened** his eyes. Without lifting his head, he stared out the window, beholding a bright and cloudless sky. The crisp morning air drifted in on a breeze. A light smile started to flick up the cheetah's face, but it fell as he heard the mourning of men and women outside. He caught the words "ninety dead" and wondered if it was true.

The sound of boots clopping on the floor caught his attention. He turned around saw the doctor looking at him with relief. The silver-haired man's voice had dropped to nearly a whisper as he said, "How do you feel?"

The cheetah's mouth hung open, trying to gather his voice. "In pain…very weak...but...death lost its grip on me."

The man let out a sigh. A grim smile flicked across his face. "You are fortunate," he said. "Most everyone in this house died, and all but one of the animals in the stables."

Faraji grunted as a wave of pain broke across his back. "What about…what about the Narnian?"

"He was even more fortunate. Death never came within a league of him."

Faraji nodded. _I cannot use my confusion and delirium as an excuse—not anymore, now that Philip is still alive. I have spoken my own words...and now I must keep them._

* * *

 **Philip paused.** The bucket of water sat before him, beckoning him to drink. He sniffed the water and gave a sigh of relief—no stench of death that he could tell—but he still hesitated.

A week had passed since their arrival in Rasul, and the disease had come and gone. Talk had spread of launching an attack on Calormen, ever since Tarin told the village elders about the soldier in the river; now that the young man had died, the rumors became a call to arms, and the funerals for the other eighty-nine dead were ended with promises of war. Philip was never asked what should be done; then again, he could not answer. He slept too little that week.

He started to lap up the water when he heard the stable door creak open. Out of the corner of his eye wove the lithe figure of a cheetah. It was Faraji, looking worn but standing tall and strong. A pause filled the space, and Faraji's hard face began to soften.

"What I'm about to tell you, I hate to even think it," he said softly. "But, given everything that has happened, it is only proper that I do it."

Philip didn't reply. He sat there, peering at Faraji and awaiting his words.

"My people owe you a debt of gratitude. What you did was noble and courageous—and best of all, it worked."

Philip stared blankly, as if he hadn't heard a word. The horse's face was tired and somber. "When I was a foal, I was told all the stories of Aslan, all the sayings and the proverbs—how he was on the move, how he would come to save us from our troubles. When he did...when I saw him with my own eyes, killing the White Witch and roaring in victory...I was filled with joy indescribable. Hope and faith gave way to glory. But now that I have seen so much suffering...so many men, women, animals, children bleeding and dying in agony...what am I to think?"

Faraji gave a sigh, and he sat on his haunches. When he lifted his head again, it was not the look Philip expected. No haughtiness or pride crossed the cat's face—just the same dour face he saw upon their first meet. "Two years ago, my master sent me and one of his lieutenants on a mission. We had heard rumors of a plot to attack a town west of here, along the border with Calormen. We thought it would be a simple mission. But when the lieutenant and I headed north, we didn't expect to encounter resistance so early. The Calormenes were defending a dry riverbed that led nowhere. He thought my master was mistaken—or, perhaps, that the Calormenes were bluffing, to divert us from something bigger."

Philip blinked his large eyes. "Were they?"

"No." A pause, and Faraji sighed, staring off into nowhere. "At first, the Calormenes broke off their pursuit. It seemed that we had called their bluff. The next day, they had caught up with us, and their reinforcements with them, so we had to face something even worse. The two of us killed twenty men, and we broke through the resistance—but it cost the lieutenant his horse, and we ran on foot with Calormene spears an inch away from our backs."

Faraji turned back to the horse. "No man or beast can ignore his duty forever. Anyone who runs away from it will run straight into it. Even if the orders make no sense, even if the man who gives them leaves his own judgment to be questioned, the orders have not changed."

Philip paused, then said, "You're right. Indeed, I have a complaint for Aslan, but we still have a mission."

Faraji nodded. "Besides, I now understand how it feels to be attacked by your own body. I now understand the sensation of one's viscera feeling as if they're on fire. Granted, I despise Aslan, and I despise Narnia, but my boy has suffered far longer than I, and I am the only hope my boy has. It was only when I resolved to complete my mission that I knew I would live. If we can deliver my boy from his own agony, I shall be content to go to Narnia and the north...no matter what else I may face."

The cat let out a deep breath, and he resumed his austere and dignified posture. "On, then, to Narnia and the North."

Philip's smile grew. "To Narnia and the North."

Faraji leapt into the saddle and steadied himself, and on cue Philip trotted out of the barn.

As Philip's hooves clopped down the plaza, a clamor of voices burst across the square. Faraji and Philip glanced left as a half-dozen cheetahs shouted in Erizadi, hissing and clawing and shouting words that Philip did not understand. Iron shackles clamped their necks, and men led the beasts away in chains. Faraji heard the words "Traitor!" and "Coward!" and some obscenity-laden call for vengeance, but Faraji gave no reply. When he realized Durik was among the dead, a wave of sorrow overtook him.

Philip waited until the stone road gave way to desert, and he said, "Good Heavens, what was _that_ about?"

Faraji stared onward, showing no emotion on his face. "Nothing of consequence," he said, forcing a lift into his voice. "Just some ruffians who made me an attractive offer."

"Whinny-inny. Well, I fancy that you could have persuaded them to join us, to put their talents to _superior_ use."

Faraji shook his head. "They are not capable of that," he said, staring blankly at the twilight-hued northern sky. "All they wanted was to spill blood. We don't need any more."


	4. Behind the Jail

**_A/n:_** _This chapter was inspired by one of my readers. After "A Wayside Misadventure" went up last month, treehugger00 and I were going back and forth about the idea of traveling to Erizad. Maybe it's just me, but I still wouldn't want to go there—not even if all expenses were paid! But during the conversation, I realized it might be a good idea to explore that. As I thought it over,_ _a secondary plot took shape, and the ideas turned into the chapter you're about to read._

 _It just goes to show what's so great about writing stories on this platform: By conversing with your readers, you breathe life into your story that you might not otherwise._

 _By the way: This chapter was a BEAST to write. Aside from it being pretty long (6,200 words!), it was a slow effort from start to finish. Not only is the story getting even darker—as if bleeding from the nose and mouth weren't grim enough—but this chapter was just difficult to write. I outlined it three times, and each effort disappointed me. In the end, I wrote it off the cuff, letting the characters and their situations play out as I typed, and that made for some very tough scenes to write._

 _One other thing: Graphic content warning._

* * *

 **It was** moments before sunrise as the Mareshah took his stand behind the jail.

The blast of a horn rang throughout the crowded courtyard, and the birds scattered into the sky. A dozen archers flanked the Mareshah on both sides. All wore gold-fringed blue uniforms like the Mareshah's, and each man held a bow and arrow and waited for an order.

A barred metal door creaked open to their right, and another dozen soldiers filed into the courtyard as the crowd's shouting rose to a roar. Each pair held a white-robed prisoner at bay—one soldier holding the criminal's hands behind his back, the other guarding him with a dagger to the neck. The prisoners' hands were clasped behind their backs, their heads covered in sackcloth. As they filed along the wall behind the jail, the soldiers loosed the manacles and stepped away from the wall.

Reza clopped a boot on the ground, and the soldiers stood at attention. All was quiet, save for the snapping flames of the torches. "The accused are standing before us today with full knowledge of their crimes. This assembly is not a trial; no further guilt needs to be proven. However, as this assembly is not privy to the nature of the crimes, I will state the record of their charges."

There was a pause. A prisoner muttered a curse in Erizadi, but Reza kept his gaze. "These men have been charged with the following crimes: casting adulterous glances at women who are not their wives, sharing a dining table with women and animals, openly criticizing the Sarazen in the presence of witnesses, and—worst of all—defaming the name of Aslan by calling him a 'lion.' In the presence all who are gathered here, that all may fear to repeat these crimes, I hereby sentence the prisoners to death."

The crowd erupted in chaos and clamor. Men and beasts roared for blood to spill. Women and children wept. Friends and family shouted in protest, threatening to bowl over the guards who held them back. Reza lifted his hand to silence the crowd, but a wave of noise was the reply. With a weary look, he drew in a deep breath.

"PRESENT ARMS!"

In unison, like a finely tuned orchestra, the men withdrew an arrow.

"PREPARE ARMS!"

Like a troupe of dancers in the ballet, the men lifted their arms in perfect synchrony.

"May Aslan smile on us again," said Reza softly. With that, he strung his bow and aimed its arrowhead at the chest of a bald man. The prisoners stared blankly, some drawing in frantic breaths, others standing numbly against the wall.

"RELEASE ARMS!"

And Reza's arrow was the first to fly.

The prisoner crumpled like a beaten pillow and tumbled to the street. The others toppled beside him as arrows plunged like knives into melons. The crowd erupted into chanting and sobbing as puddles of blood blossomed on the sett stones, but Reza ignored the noise. With a huff, he pulled an arrow out of the man he felled, and he turned to the crowd, lifting the dripping flint into the torchlight.

"See to it that none of you repeat the fate of these men. As grim as the scene may be to you, the judgment of Aslan will be far worse if we neglect our duties. It is I and my men who stand between you and the annihilation of our city. Therefore, I implore you all: Children, heed your parents. Men, love your wives. Women, submit to your husbands. Beasts, follow your masters. It is not just for your sake, but for the sake of Erizad. Remember that it is not just your lives, but your nation—a nation of laws and the fear of Aslan—that will forever be at stake."

There was a pause. An orderly blew into the horn again, and men and beasts dispersed while the loved ones gathered in tears and sobs to prepare the dead for the furnace.

Reza's back was turned by the time he dared to let out a pent-up breath. Every execution had become more difficult than the last. He wondered why the wall behind the jail wasn't stained, as twelve executions had taken place in the last week. _What is to be done?_ he thought. Every warning or prophecy from the Sarazen seemed to have no effect, and every execution seemed to be followed by a fresh wave of rebellion.

Reza's stomach fell as he caught a tawny blur out of the corner of his eye. The cheetah Moro trotted up to him, and Reza felt his anger rise in his chest. The cat had never put on any face other than a dull, emotionless stare, and whenever he spoke in his lazy voice, Reza had to hold back a careless word.

The cheetah deigned to stare at the Mareshah before turning to behold the shrouded bodies of the men. "Well," said Moro in a breath. "I suppose we wouldn't want to execute prisoners after we've had our breakfast."

Reza glared at him. "Did you have something of _import_ to say?"

"Only that an herbalist has arrived at the house. Is it the doctor who keeps wasting your money with useless remedies?"

Reza gritted his teeth and whipped out a cord from his belt. Moro's head tilted to the side as the leather slapped his face.

"If you wish to not feel that again, you will tell me what demon has possessed you to speak so crudely."

Moro's bored eyes began to narrow. A drop of blood oozed down his cheek. "Against my will, I was removed from my post in the Sarazen's army, and now I am forced to read bedtime stories to a pair of young children _._ "

"Faraji received the same duties when I rescued him. It will be no different for you."

Moro sniffed and wiped his paw across his face, smearing the drop of blood across his fur. "Well, then... _mehan..._ am I to accompany you to the house?"

"Have you anything better to do than learn my family's protocols?"

Moro stared dully at him. "No _._ "

"Then I suggest you do exactly that. When you are in Omar's presence, you will speak with an ounce of respect, or I will use this with greater force. Let's go."

With that, Reza turned on his heel and strode away, and Moro rolled his eyes and followed him out of the courtyard.

* * *

 **The man** knelt and laid a hand on the boy's forehead. "He seems better," he said. "But whether it was the medicine, or the illness running its course, I cannot say."

Omar Faroush rose onto his feet and turned to face the family. Navid stood at the end, his eyes wide and afraid, while Nazira laid a hand on Reza's shoulder. Moro sat on his haunches and licked his paw without a care.

Reza stopped aiming his angry glare at the cat and turned to Omar. For a moment, the Mareshah studied the man's face. "Is there something more we should know?"

Omar hesitated. "I have procured a remedy from a doctor in Archenland. It is a mixture of various extracts from the most potent flowers known to man and beast. From what he has told me, men with similar diseases have responded well to the treatment. Some have even recovered."

Reza let out a long-held breath.

"I know, _mehan:_ It is yet another unconventional means, and I would hate to raise your hopes again."

"That's not what I meant." He ran a hand through his short black hair. "You know I would do anything for Rafik. I would lay down my life for him, if only that would heal him. But the situation has become more complicated than you know. As of last week, the Lord of Narnia has tied my hands. For reasons beyond our comprehension, Aslan wants to be the one to heal Rafik, but instead of delivering the medicine to us, he has sent Faraji to fetch it."

Omar's face fell. "Your cheetah is traveling to Narnia, without so much as an army to protect him?" Anger flashed across his face, though it was not at the Mareshah. "Forgive me _._ Had I known what was happening, I never would have suggested this treatment."

He reached into his coat and laid a sack of tea bags on the dresser. "Then the only thing we can do is keep your son comfortable. The yarrow tea must be taken as often as he is awake; the rest of the time, he must have cold cloths and baths as often as possible. If there is any improvement or deterioration in his condition, send Moro immediately."

"I would—" Reza stared at the cheetah, who kept grooming himself. "If he would do his job for which I reward him so handsomely."

At that, Moro lowered his paw and turned his head upward. He glared, as if he had been waylaid from an errand of great importance, and with a weighty sigh, he turned to Omar. "Should there be any change in Rafik's condition, I will pay you a visit."

Omar glared at him. "I look forward to it."

Reza dismissed Omar with a nod, and the doctor strode out of the room. The cheetah padded across the floor and slipped through the opening in the door. Once they were out of earshot, Reza let out a sigh and lowered himself into a chair next to the bed. He stared for a moment at Rafik, watching the boy's face for any sign of consciousness.

"It is unbearable to even say such things," said Reza. "We could put an end to his suffering; instead, we're forced to reduce it."

After a pause, Navid's face lit up with a smile. "I can buy it, Papa!"

Reza and Nazira swung around to face him.

"I can buy it! Uncle Mansur has plenty of work for me to do."

"No." Reza lifted a hand. "If you want to work more hours in your uncle's shop, then do it for your future. The university will need more students in the studies of Aslan, and the tuition is exorbitant."

"He didn't order me to not buy the medicine, Papa. Please let me work in Uncle Mansur's shop, Papa. I can buy it!"

"If he has ordered me, then he has ordered all of us. We are forbidden to procure the medicine."

"But what about Rafik? Why won't he help him?"

"Am I Aslan, that I can know such things? All we can do is trust Aslan to guide Faraji safely home."

"Why should I? He doesn't help us. He won't even help Rafik."

Anger furrowed Reza's face. "Listen well, Navid: I know you are scared, and I know you hate to see your brother in pain, but while you live under my roof, you will never say anything like that again. Am I understood?"

"Papa, I—"

" _Am I understood?"_

Navid's mouth trembled open. "…Yes, Papa."

Reza turned away as he heard the door glide open. Moro stood in the doorway, blinking his bored eyes. "Should I join this conversation, as well, _mehan?"_

"No. This is a private matter...one which you are more than welcome to interrupt."

"I'm honored," said Moro dully. "Your first officer is requesting that you meet him at the jail straight away. There is another execution set to take place before the hour's close."

Reza's eyes narrowed. "Why doesn't Dar handle it himself?"

"Because one of our own citizens has cursed the name of Aslan."

"Is his guilt obvious?"

"Oh, yes. An entire marketplace heard it, as did his family. His parents are protesting the arrest, but his uncle and grandparents are insisting on his punishment."

"Wait." He pushed a hand forward. "Am I to understand that a _child_ uttered these words?"

"Indeed, and shame on the parents for raising him so poorly. A six year old should be above such behavior."

Reza said nothing. He leaned forward in his chair, his fingers fidgeting as he searched for a reply. None came. In his mind, he saw a small boy with an arrow thrust through his chest, his parents kneeling and weeping over the body. The image snatched the breath out of his lungs and weighed on his shoulders so heavily that he feared the chair would give way beneath him.

He pushed himself onto his feet and wandered away from the chair. He ran a finger across his chin, and his eyes kept glancing across the room, as if he were searching for something to say. _I can't..._ His stomach churned at the thought. But as the words flowed through his mind, a wave of peace fell over him. _I cannot sanction the execution of a small child...not if I can help it._

"Nazira, tell Dar that the execution has been postponed."

She nodded and strode out of the room.

Moro squinted his eyes, his mouth hanging open. "I thought such matters were beyond the scope of your duties."

Reza squared his shoulders and pulled the door open. "We'll find out soon enough. Come."

* * *

 **The house** of the Sarazen was named after the first ruler of Erizad, and the six-story manor was said to be as convoluted as the man himself. Whatever eloquence the man thought he had was lost on the people, as he was famed for saying six hundred ornate words when a simple six would do. Along the exterior, dozens of pillars adorned the balconies and porticos, while wind wandered through a doorless maze of halls that not even the guards could navigate (or so the stories went). Long after he died, the manor and the man became the gossip of the peasants, while its beauty and complexity awed any man who was blessed enough to walk its halls.

Reza had never been to the house before, as not even a Mareshah could intrude without an invitation. And everywhere he turned, he knew it. At the tops of the white marble walls, proverbs carved in the looping and twisting Erizadi language forever reminded all who passed through the house, "Do as you are told, and you will prosper." Here and there, a painting hung from the wall, with a severe-looking man in black armor thrusting a sword through the bowels of some unfortunate traitor. The man was Aslan, his face hidden in shadow (for legend said that to look upon the Lord of Narnia would mean dying a sudden death).

A three-story arch yawned in the wall; on either end stood two soldiers, both clothed in gold-trimmed blue uniforms. Moro and Reza passed by with the blessing of the guards, and straight ahead, on a carved marble throne in the center of the three-story pillared room, sat a man in flowing white robes—the robes of peace. The Sarazen arose from his throne, and Moro and Reza bent knee and bowed low.

"Arise." The reverberations of the man's voice carried away in the afternoon breeze. On cue, Reza rose first, and Moro followed suit after a long pause and sat on his haunches.

The Sarazen looked like no other man who had been born in Erizad. His skin was fairer, his eyes a lighter hue of brown, and his white hair flowed around a face with a beard that fell to his chest Legend held that the Sarazen was descended from the man Aslan, though no one with an ounce of knowledge believed it. The man Aslan had never married nor fathered a child. But if anyone could have descended from Aslan, it was he, for he bore the strength of a warrior and the gentleness of a father in the same face. And yet, as Reza looked into his eyes, fear gnawed at him all the more.

"Forgive me, _mehan,"_ he said, his eyes flicking across the room. "I am not worthy to enter this house, but I bring to you a matter of the utmost importance."

The Sarazen stepped forward and laid a hand on Reza's shoulder. "It would never be undue for you to grace this house," he said. "You have been as good as a hundred sons to me."

Reza let a pause fill the room. It was improper to speak so soon to a sovereign. "Has my Lord been informed of the execution today?"

The man sighed and shook his head. "How tragic, that a small child can say such things. Such words are even more grievous when spoken in the presence of witnesses. I fear for this city, Reza; I fear that more people will be encouraged to speak so irreverently."

Reza nodded. "I've wondered, _mehan."_

The Sarazen formed a steeple with his fingers. "Is that what troubles you, my son?"

Reza let out a breath. " _Mehan,_ you know that I am not ignorant of the law. I know the penalty for treason is death. But the law forbids us to execute a child. The last Sarazen who did so caused a civil war, and two thousand of his men were among the dead. To prevent such a war from happening again, his successor wrote a decree that no child under the age of twelve was to be executed. In eighty years, Aslan has never punished us for the actions of your ancestor."

"If this were a matter of history, I would agree with you. But here and now, we are facing extraordinary circumstances that demand the execution of this boy. The town of Rasul was nearly destroyed by an outbreak of the Red Death. Unless we obey Aslan's laws with greater care and fervor, what happened in Rasul is just the beginning."

"I read the report, _mehan,_ and I wonder if it was Aslan who brought the Red Death. By all indications, it seemed to be the work of Calormen."

"Mind yourself, Reza. Your words are on the verge of blasphemy. The judgment of Aslan has been carried out in the time and manner Aslan deemed fit; to call it the work of mere mortals will be disastrous."

 _"_ _Mehan,_ I have no intention of disobeying Aslan, but I have no intention of putting words in his mouth, either. Until you or your successor overturns that decree, I have no legal grounds for putting this boy to death. If Aslan has not decreed that the boy should die, and if we execute him, anyway, it might invite the judgment of Aslan on us both."

"And if Aslan _has_ decreed it, and we fail to carry out that sentence, the judgment of Aslan will fall on this country."

"It has not fallen upon us in eighty years; we have no reason to think it will now. _Mehan,_ I mean no disrespect, but the reasons you have offered for executing this boy are based on nothing but speculation. We are not prophets; we are lawmakers and soldiers. We write the laws, we enforce them, and we fight to keep them. If Aslan himself wants to execute this boy, or wants to order us to do it, then let him. If not, it would be foolhardy and arrogant for us to do his job."

The Sarazen's frown deepened. A long and heavy breath fell from the old man's lips. "Were you opposing me with greater vigor, I would kill you where you stand," he said. "But, as I understand it, our laws and history agree with you, and I would be foolish to ignore them." Another pause filled the room, and the Sarazen rose from his throne. "Per your request, the boy's sentence will be lessened. He will be given twenty lashes, and will be reminded what a serious matter it is to speak treason against the Lord of Narnia. After that, he will go free."

Reza nodded and bent knee, quietly loosing a sigh of relief. "Very well, _mehan."_

The Sarazen took his mace in hand and brought the tip of it down with a clang _._ Reza and Moro arose, knowing they were dismissed. The fear that chewed on Reza went away, though a different fear began to overtake him.

The two wove through the hallways, passing guards without making so much as a glance. He waited for Moro to speak, but the cheetah trotted along in a content silence, his white-tipped tail bobbing up and down with each step.

"You think I made a mistake."

"I do," said the cheetah. "I would not want to watch Erizad bleed to death on account of your leniency."

"Do not mistake leniency for caution," said Reza. "An execution is no trivial matter, especially that of a child."

Moro scoffed. "Suppose Aslan were here," he said. "Would he agree with your ruling?"

"That is neither here nor there; he is the Lord of Narnia, and I will not presume to speak for him."

"By carrying out your duties as Mareshah, is that not what you are doing?"

Reza gave no reply.

"By sparing the boy's life," said Moro, "you would effectively say that Aslan spares the lives of disobedient children. If you are wrong, he will send more of the Red Death upon this country—perhaps on your family."

His heart had slammed against his throat, choking his words. Indeed, the Red Death was heralded as a sign of ultimate judgment against the highest of traitors. The image of men, women and children with bloody faces and boils breaking out all over their skin ruled over his thoughts. He wondered what it would be like to lie in pain as the wrath of Aslan bled him dry.

Reza's boots and Moro's paws scraped against the dirt with each footfall. Without further word, they stared ahead as they wove through the bustling street, the sun baking the roads and the travelers in its late morning glare.

* * *

 _ **Dreams of**_ _fire and thunder tortured his sleep. The mighty palms of Erizad erupted in flames, and smoke blotted out the stars. Something had thrown him down on the sand; now he stared up into the canopy of palms, as a man in gleamless black armor towered over him, his metal-clad foot pinning Reza by the chest._

" _My Lord," said Reza. "Have mercy..."_

 _The man withdrew his blade, holding it above his shadowed face. The sword flickered in the light of the flames._

 _"Who are you, Lord?" said Reza._

 _A shrieking voice pierced the sky. "I AM ASLAN!"_

 _With a cry like a swooping falcon, the man plunged the sword into Reza's bowels—_

The Mareshah flinched awake and kicked against the sheets. Sweat beaded on his forehead and soaked his shirt. The ringing in his ears faded, and the mournful cry of an owl drifted on the breeze. He grasped his stomach, fearing that a sword had plunged through.

"Reza?" The rustling of sheets and a gentle hand on his shoulder calmed his trembling heart. "What is wrong?"

He sniffled, holding his hand to his nose. He sighed in relief—it wasn't blood.

"Another nightmare," he said. "My boyhood lessons are haunting me in my sleep. Nazira, I did what I thought was right. Why, then, does Aslan trouble me so? Are these nightmares the beginning of his judgment against me?"

"You did what you had to," said Nazira. "You followed the law, and you obeyed the Sarazen. Not even Aslan can punish you for that."

He laid his head against the wall behind his pillow and stared out at the full moon. "Are you so sure about that?"

 _"MEHAN!"_

Reza's stomach flipped. It was Moro.

They whipped back the sheets and tumbled out of bed. Reza flung the door open and sped down the hall as Nazira followed close behind.

They burst into the room and turned to face the bed beneath the window. Rafik trembled and groaned, and two lines of blood poured out of his nose.

Reza turned to Moro. "Find Omar and Navid! NOW!"

Moro nodded and leapt down the hall, scrambling down the stairs. Reza laid a cloth to Rafik's nose and held the trembling boy in his arms...

* * *

 **All was** quiet in the house as dawn loomed in the horizon. Reza leaned back in the chair, staring half-asleep at the azure sky. Rafik had stopped bleeding and shaking, but that was the last he knew before Omar told them to rest. Nazira sat in numb silence on the sofa. Reza dozed in and out of sleep, and when he jolted awake he thought he heard Navid's voice.

A soft knock at the door made his head swivel. Reza pushed himself onto his feet, and the young soldier lifted his hat and bowed his head.

"Dar..." Reza forced strength into his weary voice, trying to muffle his yawn. "Has anyone found Navid?"

"No, and we haven't found Moro yet, either. _Mehan,_ I know you have enough on your mind as it is, but you must come to the jail. There have never been so many children as we've seen in the last four days."

Weariness fell across Reza's face. "Is that what I'm to make of it? I pass down mercy, and they take advantage of it?"

Dar gave him a skeptical look. "You would know better than I _."_

Reza leaned against a pillar, his eyes glancing across the room. "What will be done with them?"

" _Mehan,_ I agree with you: I cannot just let them be executed. But I cannot do one thing or another without a direct order."

Reza stared at him with tired eyes. "Does the Sarazen know of this?"

"Not to my knowledge," said Dar. "Per your order, all your men are sworn to secrecy."

The Mareshah lifted a finger. "Keep it that way. I will be there as soon as I'm done here."

From on high came the clack of a closing door. Reza flicked his eyes upstairs and saw Omar emerge from the boys' bedroom. With a nod, Reza dismissed Dar and, as Nazira rose from the couch, he stood to face Omar.

Reza let out a sigh. "I must know," he said. "Is it the Red Death?"

Omar gave a sigh in reply. "No. It appeared to have been a complication from the fever."

"I don't understand."

Omar's eyebrows fell over his gleaming eyes. "Nor do I."

Reza started to speak, but the word caught in his throat. "No..."

Omar shook his head. "I'm sorry, my friend," he said. "There was nothing that could be done."

Nazira's gasps broke into sobs, and she collapsed on the sofa and buried her face in her hands. Reza had turned away, and only then did he loose a pained gasp. His teeth gritted and his lips trembled, and the tears in his eyes broke free as the memories flooded his mind—the first steps Rafik took, the day he first lay in bed with the illness, and now the bleeding and shaking as his father held him in his arms...

Reza was wrung dry by the time he gathered whatever breath he could. "It was within my power to save his life. If I—" He blinked, and more tears poured down his face as he stifled a sob. "Had I done my duty...I could have saved him."

" _Mehan,_ you were ordered by Aslan himself. There was nothing you could have done."

"Do not presume to tell me about my duty," he said. "I had the power to save my son, and now...and now he is _dead."_

The door creaked open, and silence filled the room. Moro strode through, peering up at them with the same emotionless stare. "I found Navid."

A sigh fell from Reza's chest. "Where?"

"He is being escorted to the jail. He kidnapped a horse and rode to Omar's office, where he stole the medicine from Archenland."

Reza's face fell in horror, but Omar lifted a hand. "You have my word, _mehan:_ I will not press any charges."

"That's not the last of it," said Moro. "Your boy has committed high treason against the Lord of Narnia. After I turned him in to the police, he called Aslan a lazy fool."

Reza let out a sob, his face twisting into a grim smile. "Well, that is exactly what he is," he said. "There has been too much death in this city because of him, and now it has reached my house. I will not sacrifice my only living son on the altar to Aslan. Leave at once; tell my men to bring Navid here."

Moro stared up at him with bored eyes.

Reza's grimace fell with a furious huff. "I gave you an order. Carry it out—now."

"I won't have time," said Moro. His spotted ears swiveled to the right. "Even now, the Sarazen is on the march."

Reza's eyes flicked toward the window, and a wave of terror broke across his spine. From afar came the rhythmic pounding of military boots. A river of blue tunics, lit by the torches that marked the shops, was pouring into the thoroughfare.

"You..." He turned to Moro and pulled out his bow and arrow. "You told him."

"You can threaten me with any weapon you like, but I have nothing to hide. You've doomed this country by your weakness and cowardice. If this country does not obey Aslan, then Aslan will spill the blood of her people. By the Man's sword and shield, I cannot let that happen."

Reza nocked an arrow and aimed its tip at Moro's forehead.

"Oh, you can kill me if you wish, but it would do you no good. Aslan would repay my death with yours, and I don't think that's the kind of legacy you want to leave."

His trembling fingers slipped, and the arrow burst free, but Moro saw it coming before it happened. The arrow grazed Moro's tail and shattered against the stone floor. The man nocked another arrow, but the cheetah leapt over the table and soared out the window.

Reza glared at the empty window and muttered a curse, after which he spun on his heel and turned toward the door _._ "Start packing. As soon as Navid and I return, we're leaving."

"Confound it, man! The army will overtake the jail by the time you get him out."

He glared at Omar. "Perhaps."

Omar grabbed him by the arm. "Reza, I beg you to _think._ Navid is in Aslan's hands—"

Reza jerked his arm free. "He is not in Aslan's hands, you fool. This country has been seized by cowards and murderers— _they're_ the ones who will take Navid into their hands!"

"But Aslan's laws—"

"Damn the laws! We have spent our lives cowering before a man—no, not even a man...the mere _threat_ of a man who rules by fear and commands blood sacrifice to keep the peace! That man sent my cheetah into the North, knowing my younger son would die in misery while my older son awaits an execution. Navid was being far too generous when he called Aslan a lazy fool. The Lord of Narnia is worse: He is a nightmare from which we all must wake up. _Now_ I am awake, and I will not fall asleep again. I will not bow before the Lord of Narnia, not for one more day."

Reza paused. When it was clear Omar and Nazira would say nothing, he spun on his heel and marched through the open doors.

* * *

 **Reza entered** the courtyard, and a burst of relief flooded his chest.

Parents and children emerged from the jail, joyful tears mingling with trembling smiles. A few families had brought their animals with them; even the beasts shared in the celebration. At the sides of each family, Reza's men led the way. There was talk of not going home, but being led to safety. The sight made Reza's hard face lift a little, but he forced his face to go blank, as he had work to do.

He wove through the din and marched into the jail, his boots clanging against the metal floor. The soldiers had emptied all the ground-level cells, leaving the rats and mice to cower in the hay-filled corners, but more prisoners—all children, led out by the hands of their parents—streamed from the lower levels.

Dar swerved in between a pair of families bustling through the narrow corridor, and he looked Reza in the eye to preempt his commander's inquiry.

"I couldn't, _mehan._ I couldn't just execute them."

Reza aimed a dark look at him. "That was not your decision," he said, then laid a hand on his shoulder. "But I thank you for making it."

"Papa!"

Reza spun to his right. The little boy with a red-cheeked face charged as hard as his feet could carry him, and Reza caught Navid in his arms. The boy laid his tear-stained face on his father's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Papa…"

"I know, son…I know." He patted him on the back and let out a sigh of relief. "Let's go home."

A deep voice bellowed across the courtyard. "IT'S THE SARAZEN!"

Reza's face fell. With a strong grasp, he took Navid's hands into his own. "Listen to me carefully: We need to leave Palár, but if I do not tend to this matter, things will get much worse. Follow these men wherever they take you, and wait for me to return."

Tears flowed down his face. "But Papa—"

"Navid, you need to be strong. I know you are scared, but you are stronger than your fear."

Navid bit his lip, but gathered his breath and nodded.

Reza pulled him close in the tightest hug he ever gave, and he said, "Go."

Navid pulled away and followed the two soldiers around the bend.

Reza stood tall and motioned to Dar, who followed him out of the corridor. As they entered the courtyard, Reza felt his heart slam against his throat. The marching stopped, and an ocean of blue uniforms surrounded the courtyard on all sides, pinning Reza, his men, and the restless crowd of witnesses inside. The Sarazen broke out of the line and took a step forward; in reply, Reza and the last of his unit took their stand behind the jail, hands clasped in the hollows of their backs.

The Sarazen's eyes glanced down the row, flicking from soldier to soldier. "All I need is one man to explain the situation."

No reply.

At the Sarazen's feet, Moro slinked into view and turned a big smile upward, making Reza stifle an infuriated breath. "I can explain everything, _mehan._ Your unit has not done its job. Reza's men kept those children in prison, with no intention of informing you."

"You have already explained as much," said the Sarazen. "I want to know who is responsible for it."

No reply.

"I know the names of the children," said the Sarazen. "I can find them and bring them here."

Reza glanced back to the house. He saw Navid scramble through the open door, then pull it shut. When the door gave a distant thud, Reza felt his heart leap in his chest, and he stifled a sigh of relief.

"Who carried out the order?"

Still no reply.

The Sarazen said something in Erizadi, and on cue, the front row of soldiers nocked their arrows, aiming the tips at the line of Reza's men. A wave of murmurs and cries rippled through the crowd.

"If no one is to proclaim his own guilt, then I can only assume all of you share in his guilt." The Sarazen swung his head to and fro, like a hungry cat. "I will ask you once more: Who is responsible?"

Reza kept staring ahead, but to his left he felt Dar tensing. He knew what Dar would say, so he strode forward and lowered his boot with a loud clop.

"I am."

A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. The Sarazen swung around, and pain sprang across his face. He stared with mournful eyes at Reza, but with a breath he motioned with his hand, and the soldiers stood at ease, their bows and arrows resting in their hands.

Reza kept staring into nowhere. Every step of the Sarazen's boots felt like a minute passing by. When their eyes met, Reza let out a breath, waiting for the Sarazen to say something. No words came, for his gaze said enough.

The Sarazen nocked an arrow and loosed it into Reza's chest.

Blood spurted out of the wound as pain sliced through his heart. The force of the impact shoved him backward like a kick to the bowels, and the wall of the jail rushed up over his head as his pounding ears muffled the cries of the crowd.

The Mareshah of Palár fell into a repose, and all was no more.


	5. The Fight Behind the Jail

_**A/n:**_ _Phew! Six thousand words later, the story continues._

 _Like the last installment, this was a beast to write. I knew where I wanted it to go, but after the big ending of the last chapter, I worried that I had written myself into a corner from which I couldn't escape. When every outline I wrote kept failing me after the first paragraph, I did what worked for me last time: I wrote this on the fly, letting the characters take it where it needed to go._

 _Once again,_ _big thanks to treehugger00 for inspiring and influencing not just the last chapter but this one, as well_ _. One line from the PM I received lit a fire of inspiration in me:_ _"Aren't Erizad and her people just as much a part of Aslan's plan as greater Narnia? I would have no one shield my eyes from the wonders of God in all his glory." With that line alone, treehugger00 helped me realize that Erizad is more than just a nation telling a parable. They're a nation that's part of THE story—the story told by the true Aslan—and can be part of the radiance of his glory. That not only influenced this chapter but likely set the stage for something bigger and grander than I ever set out to write._

* * *

 **A murmur** rippled through the crowd as the Sarazen stood over the body. Some onlookers wept with their hands over their mouths, while the rest gazed in silence. Their Mareshah was dead, the same man who had fought off Calormenes and won, and he was struck down by the man he had served for the last decade.

Behind the jail, not a single one of Reza's men said a word; all stood as still as they could, with a few daring to lower their mouths in alarm. Before them stood the thousand soldiers in the Sarazen's command, and Reza's men were a ripple in comparison—a ripple daring to challenge the might of an ocean.

With a wet squelch, the Sarazen pulled his arrow free and swung around to face them. "The fury of Aslan threatens to fall upon us if we do not settle the matter _._ If any of you value your lives, you will bring those children back to the jail—now."

No one made a move.

The Sarazen swung toward Dar to give an order, but the words caught in his mouth. Dar's face had turned red and contorted with a pained grimace. The Sarazen glared at him and said, "Can you not contain yourself, boy?"

Dar blinked away tears, then turned to face the Sarazen. "Reza did not give the order to set those children free," he said, fighting back a sob. " _I_ did."

A wounded look fell across the Sarazen's face, but as quiet filled the courtyard, the commander's face darkened. "Then I suggest you redeem yourself and tell me where they are."

Dar glared at him. "I would give my life for this country, I would die for you if ever it would save my people, but I cannot sanction the murder of children."

There was another pause. A flicker of admiration lit the old man's eyes, but it died like a winking spark.

The Sarazen nocked and loosed another arrow, plunging it into Dar's chest. The soldier stumbled backward and his legs buckled as a look of horror and shock froze his face. He landed on his back, his blank face staring up at the dawn, and he loosed a final gasp.

The courtyard fell silent, not daring to say a word. The last of Reza's men fidgeted and turned away, their stone faces beginning to break, while the Sarazen's men stared with apathy on their faces.

Without warning, a cheetah slinked into view. Moro gazed up at the last of Reza's men with his dull, bored gaze. "Who is third in command?"

A pause…then a man with a mustache and goatee stepped forward, glaring at Moro.

"Ah…Aziz. A bit young, like the rest of these men, but hopefully your seniority comes with a level head. Should you desire it, I hereby promote you to Mareshah of Palar."

"Denied. I would rather not answer to _you."_

"If you value your life above all else, you will accept your promotion and do what you're told."

A pained grimace flicked across his mustache. "If that's the choice…"

He reached into his quiver and lowered an arrow into his bow—

Aziz flinched and turned to the left. Laying his arm on the young man's arm was a soldier with a short black beard, and dark brown eyes framed by heavy eyebrows and long furrows. The man stood a head above the row of men, and his arms and chest were thick and strong, a strange contrast to the soft tones that graced his words.

"Lower it, Aziz," he said. "You will get us all killed."

"But Abdul, we're talking about _children,"_ he whispered through gritted teeth. _"_ Confound it, man, where is your honor?"

"There's no honor in fighting a worthless battle. Look ahead of you. If every one of us fired on the Sarazen and his men, there would be a thousand more of them waiting to kill us."

"What are you suggesting, Abdul—that we send two scores of children to their deaths?"

"We have no choice. Even if we all threatened to fire on the armies of the Sarazen, they would still carry out their mission. It is only proper that we follow our orders now and make peace with them later."

Aziz whipped his arm free and broke out of line. "Orders be damned. If you have to make peace with yourself after committing evil against your people, it is no peace at all."

He nocked an arrow and tightened his bow, aiming the arrowhead at the Sarazen's army. More gasps and murmurs filled the air, and a smile twitched across his face. He swept left and right, peering down the shaft of the arrow.

"Is there anyone who wants to live?" he shouted.

Moro glared at him. "You don't, apparently," he muttered. "Gentlemen?"

With that, a row of the Sarazen's men stepped forward and, like a troupe in the ballet, nocked their arrows in unison.

As Aziz stared at the row of arrows, Moro smirked. "You should listen to Abdul," he said. "You have one arrow and fifty targets."

Aziz tilted the arrow toward Moro. "With _you,_ it makes one more."

"Don't be a fool," said the cheetah. "Even if you killed me, what would _that_ accomplish? With or without you, justice will be served. If you have any sense left between your ears, you will lower that weapon and do as you're told."

There was a pause. Aziz felt the string slacken as his fingers started to tremble. A shudder bubbled out of his mouth, and sweat gleamed in the torchlight. "May the Lord of Narnia forgive me."

Moro squinted in bafflement. The soldiers tensed their bows. Abdul turned to Aziz and said, "What are you _doing?"_

Aziz gave no reply. He jerked the bow to eye level...he pulled on the fletch of the arrow...and his fingers let go of the string with a thick snap.

Abdul stood frozen in place, his ears deafened by the pounding of his heart. The taste of bile worked its way up into his throat. All the wind had blown out of his lungs, and he gasped to get it back. Standing in the path of the arrow, flying backward and toppling to the street, was the Sarazen.

"NO!"

Abdul's cry was drowned out by the screaming and cheering. Soldiers turned and ran down the empty street, while the front line of men charged into the courtyard. Moro roared and leapt at Aziz with paws full of claws. Aziz flayed and grasped at the air as Moro clawed at his face, wriggling to clamp his jaws around the man's neck.

"SAVE THEM!" cried Aziz. "SAVE THEM!"

Abdul nodded and burst into a run, weaving through soldiers and dodging arrows as the jail rushed past him.

* * *

 **Abdul charged** through the empty streets, throwing his head over his shoulder with every turn. No one was coming, but he tensed his hand, readying it to reach for an arrow. The clangs of weapons and the screams of the dying seemed to get louder the farther he went, and the streets grew narrower as he walked deeper into the heart of the city.

He ducked inside a squat sandstone building and leaned against a wall in the narrow doorway. He collected his shaky breath, then turned to his left and followed a stairwell beneath the street. Darkness rose up around him, and his feet echoed in the sewer's dim tunnel. As cold and foul air filled his nose, he gritted his teeth and filled his head with random thoughts, keeping his head from causing his stomach to revolt. He glanced down the corridor, panning left and right, and he made his turn.

The room was supposed to be hidden behind a fake wall in the corridor— _Possibly built when a previous Sarazen went mad,_ he thought to himself—and how it could be big enough for thirty families and the soldiers guarding them, he didn't know. All he knew was that Dar assumed command and did what he thought he must, and he said nothing of the matter.

Abdul stopped. He curled a finger and tapped on the stone wall with a knuckle. The sound was muffled and thick. A few steps down, the sound gave a faint echo. With a huff, he splayed his hands on the wall and bent a knee, pushing back on the other foot, and he groaned as the wall rumbled away. A few gasps filled the empty tunnel, but Abdul pushed a hand forward, then lifted a finger to his lips.

"It's all right," he whispered. "I'm Abdul. I'm a friend."

"What happened?" said the woman, her head covered in a cloak. "What is wrong?"

"Don't ask me of anything, Shahara," he said, forcing a mournful sigh from breaking forth. "We have to leave—now."

A man in a white robe waved his hand. "You will tell us right now. Why is Dar not here?"

"He's dead. Reza's dead, and now the Sarazen is dead. No doubt the rest of Reza's men are dead, too."

"Wait." The man pushed a hand forward. "The man who wants to murder our children is now dead?"

"That man was my Sarazen. No matter how foolhardy and frightened he may be, he was my master, just as he was yours."

"How could you keep this from us?" said Shahara, a smile lifting her face. "Perhaps now, our children will be all right!"

Without warning, a bored voice filled the tunnel. "I wouldn't count on that, woman."

Abdul's stomach flipped as he spun around. "You…"

Moro stared up at him and flicked the tip of his tail. "I thought you were reasonable," said the cheetah. "When you spoke sense into Aziz, I hoped you would carry out your orders. But now that you've run away and taken your stand with these rebels, I don't know what to make of you."

"Moro," said Shahara, "please—they're our sons and daughters. Please let them go free."

He aimed his dull gaze at her, as if laughing at her with his eyes. Then he threw back his head, filled his lungs with a deep breath, and roared:

"THEY'RE _HERE!"_

The tunnel echoed with the shouting of a man's orders, and the corridor filled with the clomping of boots. Abdul clenched a fist and reached for his dagger. "We're leaving. Get out of my way."

Moro scoffed. "You know what I did to Aziz," he said. "Would you want me to do the same to you—and with these poor children watching?"

There was no reply.

The cat glanced over his shoulder. Along the walls of the corridor, torchlight flickered and long shadows drew near.

"They're here," said Moro. "You'd better hurry if you want to make your move. It's better to have ten seconds to gloat instead of none."

The man's knuckles turned pale from clutching the hilt of the knife, but he loosened his grip and took his stand. The corridor filled with soldiers and torchlight, and a thick silence filled the room.

Abdul smiled coldly. "If any of you want to kill me, get it over with. I would rather die than join this mission."

Moro paused, as if contemplating the offer, and he let out a breath. "That's not the only option," he said. "I still think you can be reasoned with, and should hope the next Sarazen can make use of you—assuming that you can be…persuaded."

"What does _that_ mean?"

The cat tilted his head over his shoulder. "Naji? Hamid? Take him to Andur."

"Yes, _mehan,"_ said the two men.

The soldiers wrapped their huge hands around Abdul's upper arms, bracing him in a chokehold that loosed a grunt of pain. As they led him out of the room, Abdul caught a final glance at Moro. "You don't deserve to be called that."

Moro ignored him and faced the battalion that stood before him. All stared at him, awaiting his command. The cheetah craned his head upward and stood tall and strong.

"Do it."

On cue, the soldiers filed into the shelter. Screams and cries of protest filled the tunnel, and the cheetah trotted out of the shelter and down the corridor, the tip of his spotted tail dancing up and down with his every step.

* * *

 **Trails of blood** wandered through the flat stones as Aziz lay on his back, his lifeless gaze aimed up at the sky. A knot of soldiers fought alongside his body; some had tried to catch Moro after the cat had bitten into the young man's throat, while others bounded to the cat's rescue. The cheetah had dashed away and left the men to fight while Moro chased after Abdul. Three others had fallen alongside the dead by the time Moro returned; when the cat leapt onto the ceiling of the jail, horror fell across his face. The armies of the Sarazen had turned and fled, leaving knots of soldiers to fight in the courtyard.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" said Moro. "FIGHT BACK! FIGHT FOR JUSTICE! FIGHT IN THE NAME OF ASLAN!"

There was a pause. More soldiers flooded out of the courtyard and headed for Andur, but Moro smiled. He was but one cheetah, a talking head in a sea of voices, but the soldiers who stayed answered with greater vigor. Every punch, kick and stab made its mark. Men and women collapsed side by side, bleeding from beneath their robes; children sobbed as they scattered across the road; beasts filled the air with the low rumbles of their dying breaths.

Without warning, the war cries turned into sobs and pleas of terror. Two rows of bluecoats filed into the courtyard; children kicked and screamed and thrashed in their captors' grip. A wave of men and women poured into the row of soldiers, fists and staffs swinging.

Moro swung toward a cluster of soldiers and said, "NORTH SIDE OF THE JAIL! NOW!"

The commanding officer nodded at Moro, and his blue coat whipped as he spun around to face the mayhem. The soldiers charged out of the courtyard and rounded the corner, and by them Moro slammed a paw on the roof with a grunt of anger. Two cheetahs leapt into his face, bringing down their claws in broad swipes; a tiger and a panther dug their fangs into his heels, while men and beasts charged at the soldiers. All around them, soldiers collapsed under the weight of men and beasts, with ten more bluecoats pushing back into the deluge—

"SOMEONE'S COMING!"

Whatever Moro wanted to say fell into his lungs. The voice that made his ears swivel was high and full of panic. Out of the corner of his eye, Moro saw the man's arm pointing north. Moro swung his head, and the cat's muscular shoulders tensed. A two-story shop blocked his view of the city gates to the north; he loped off the ceiling of the jail and padded into the street, weaving between clusters of fighting soldiers. He swung to the north, following the man's outstretched arm, and the sight made his breath quiver. The shouts and cries of battle faded, even as the battle wore on. His heart banged so loudly that his ears pulsed with noise.

The sun peaked its manèd head above the dunes in the east, throwing shadows from horizon to horizon. To the north, a bright speck shimmered like a star, and the something's feline form slipped into focus as it drew near. Moro felt his chest constrict, trapping his breath in his lungs.

"No…"

The courtyard grew as still as a cave. All had turned to the North now; some stared in horror and dread, while others stared with fear and wonder but not knowing which one to feel. The Someone had grown so large that all stopped to see its shadow, a thin black smudge rippling down the dunes. Just as Moro could make out its face—a wild, golden face like the sun peaking from a cloud, with rivers of wild, golden hair framing a splendid face—the Someone leapt over the bars of the city gate in a majestic arc onto the ground.

The Someone's paws boomed against the street like a giant banging his drum. The glorious beast shone like bronze in a fire, his mane rippling and waving all around his head. His eyes blazed like a pair of morning suns; they were fixed ahead of him, turning aside for nothing. The Someone gave an incredible leap and hurtled over the crowd like an eagle soaring on the wind, and as soon as he landed he bounded around to face them, his tail parading behind him as he swung about in the wide street. The emblem of grace and glory faced them all, and the children looked on him with joy and awe. But the grown-ups and beasts couldn't bear the sight; even the soldiers, who had been trained to not even flinch in the presence of Calormenes, turned their gazes away as their hands and knees shook.

The mighty beast lifted his head, his mane shimmering in the light of the newborn day. "Don't be afraid!" he said. His golden voice was wild and low, like the booming of distant thunder. "I have come as a friend. I have come to answer the prayers of two of your children, and I have come to show the people of Erizad who is the true Aslan."

Moro grimaced and started to speak—but before he could gather his words, a soldier burst between them and aimed an arrow at the creature's forehead. The arrow glanced off as if it had hit a stone, and the regal golden face was as unblemished as before. The man stared up at Aslan as a child would stare at a looming thundercloud, and he turned white and shrunk back.

Moro crouched low as if ready to pounce. He flicked his eyes to the soldier. "Listen here, you coward: This creature is a Calormene trick. They conjured him up and sent him here. They want us to make us think this is Aslan, so that they can make us fall over in a swoon while they capture our cities one by one. If you won't act like a man and slay this monster, then I will. The Sons of Adam may be fooled by this pageantry, but I am _not."_

Moro leapt like a coiled wire and splayed his claws. His face fell in a horrified gawk as he collided with the Lion's muzzle.

The cheetah went limp and fell like a stone to the ground. Moro started onto his hind feet, but Aslan had picked him up like a kitten in his jaws. He strode calmly across the street, where a burbling fountain lay.

"LET ME GO!" Moro grunted and growled as he thrashed in the Lion's fangèd jaws. "DAMN IT, YOU FOOL, I AM THE _JAMIRA_ OF THE SARAZEN! YOU WILL _LISTEN_ TO ME!"

Aslan opened his jaws, and Moro tumbled into the basin and landed with a splash. He sloshed from side to side, whipping his head above the limb of the fountain, until he scrambled onto all fours. He coughed and spluttered, his agape jaws dripping as his eyes bulged. "How _dare_ you!" he said, slapping a paw with a splash.

The Lion paid him no attention, but turned and padded back to the courtyard of the jail. The only other sound was the sniffling and sobbing of a boy. Navid had found his father and seen the hole in his uniform, and now he knelt over his father's body, until he saw the big cat standing next to him and he rose to his feet.

Aslan sat on his haunches, towering over the boy like an elephant, but the Lion's face was solemn and heavy. Had the Erizadi not been so frightened, they would admit what they were thinking—that Aslan looked so sorry for the boy, he would start shedding tears. Instead, the Lion lowered his head and touched the boy's forehead with his tongue.

"Don't be afraid, child," he said gently. "Ever since you dreamt of me, you and I have been well met."

Navid sniffled. "My brother and father are dead," he said, letting out a sob. "Why didn't you help them?"

"Don't cry, child," said Aslan. "This did not happen on account of you, but so that your people could know the true Aslan."

Behind him, Moro sloshed out of the fountain and gave a wet shudder. "True Aslan, indeed," he said, shaking himself dry. "Navid has every right to mourn for his sins—not just against his father or brother, but against you. That boy should be executed, as should all the rest of those brats who disobeyed your laws."

As the Lion turned to face the crowd, sorrow flooded his face. The adults and beasts were hanging on Moro's every word; even the parents who held their children in their arms seemed to agree with the cheetah.

Aslan stood on all fours and lifted his head. A growl rumbled from the cavern of his belly. "I have endured your people long enough," said the Lion. "You are blinded by your fears and blinded by the fears of your leaders. But here and now, Navid's faith will be answered. Not only is he forgiven of all his sins, but his father and brother will rise again, and this child's family will join him in freedom."

Aslan swung to the left, his mane rippling in the sunlight. "Reza!" he shouted, his voice rising to a roar. "AWAKE!"

The mighty cat's voice boomed up and down the city, echoing like a thunderclap. Navid turned back to face his father's body, waiting for a sign of life—a twitch of the fingers, a flutter of the breath, a pulse of his chest.

Nothing happened.

Navid's eyes welled up with tears. He turned toward Aslan and started to say something, but the Lion stared ahead. When it was clear the Lion would say nothing more, Navid started to turn back. "Papa...wake up..." The words faded as they left his mouth, as something had caught his eye. The stain of blood that had bloomed on his father's uniform had started to fade. Navid blinked and looked harder. Now, the stain had disappeared, as if the man had never bled.

Without warning, there was a gasp. Reza's fingers curled and stretched, and his chest rose and fell as he took in fluttering breaths. A few animals flinched back, glaring at Aslan as if the Lion had done something cruel. A few men and women whispered and murmured, still staring numbly at the man before flicked his eyes side to side, as if he had awoken in a place he never expected. His arms trembled as he pulled himself up and sat upon the ground, surrounded by waves of gasps and mumblings, and as he turned toward Navid, the child burst into a run.

Reza's word was voiceless, as if spoken in a whisper. "Navid!"

The boy fell into his father's arms and laid his head against his father's shoulder, and tears poured down Reza's face. The crowd gasped and murmured, their faces falling with horror and wonder, but all Navid heard was the sobs of his father as he said, "My boy…my boy…"

Moro shook his head, his eyes wide with horror. He muttered voiceless words to himself, not daring to believe what he had seen, and he scrambled out of place and broke into a run.

A long while passed before Reza had wiped his tears and the two said all they could think to say. Reza composed himself enough to gather his breath and dare to lift himself onto his feet. He found the strength to stand, but his knees threatened to buckle (whether it was from the sight of the Lion or from awaking after the sleep of death, he knew not). As he stood on fidgeting legs, he found himself staring straight into the splendid face of the Lion. A measure of strength returned and steadied his frame, and his face twisted with a puzzled grimace.

The Lion seemed to smile at him. "Indeed," he said softly. "We are acquainted, you and I."

Reza scoffed. "Are we?" he said. "When Navid and Rafik told me they had dreams of you, I could not believe they were true."

"Many things you heard are true, but you had always listened to your teachers and leaders. Rest assured that I am not the one who haunted your dreams. Nor am I a man who stands over his people and longs to put them to death. Nor am I the one who summoned Faraji to the North."

A flash lit Reza's eyes, as if something had been confirmed, but his face darkened again. "Then who _are_ you?"

"I was the one who died at the hands of the Witch, to rescue a traitor from his doom, and I was the one for whom death started working backwards. I was the one who chased Shasta and his companions to safety, and who punished Aravis for the crime against her stepmother's slave. I was the Lion—the burning bush with a face, as Faraji called it—who graced the seal of the letter that came to you. And after you stood in the place of a young man who disobeyed the Sarazen's orders, I was the one who commanded death to work backwards."

Reza let out a soft breath. "Why should I believe you?" His voice was low and cold. "I begged you to save my son, and you couldn't lift a finger to help him. For two years I watched and waited, and you kept your distance from me until he was dead. And now you overturn everything I believe in and expect me to believe you instead, to take the word of a stranger?"

"I spoke to you, Reza, but you ignored me. When Rafik began dreaming of me before he fell ill, he tried to tell you, and you ignored him. When Navid began dreaming of me, you ignored him, too. When my messengers told you of me, you charged them with treason and put them to death, per your master's orders."

"And you saw fit to punish me by killing Rafik."

"No," said Aslan. "This was allowed to happen for the sake of your country. It is now that the reversing of death will bring life to a dying land."

The Lion turned to the Mareshah's house. "RAFIK!" he said, joy lifting his voice. "COME FORTH!"

A thick silence filled the streets. All eyes turned toward the house, watching for any sign of life, but nothing came.

"Come, Rafik," said Reza in a whisper. "Come forth..."

A few animals turned to the right. A door had opened far away, followed by the light pattering of feet on the dirt roads. Restless mumblings filled the air once again...and a chorus of gasps and cries of wonder filled the air as the boy turned the corner and broke into a run. Behind him, Nazira stood with her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with fright, and Omar slumped against the wall as an incredulous smile lifted his face.

Tears left trails down Reza's face, his trembling lips pulled open to let the word free. "Rafik!"

"Papa!"

Reza knelt down and lifted the boy into his arms, pulling him close as he wept with abandon. All around him he heard rumblings that a Mareshah should not grieve or rejoice so openly, but he gave it no heed. Navid swung to Aslan with the biggest smile he had ever shown, and Aslan loosed a rumbling laugh, full of joy and merriment, and Navid rushed up to him and threw his arms around the Lion's neck.

Nazira and Omar entered the circle as Reza knelt down and set Rafik on his feet. Nazira had been crying and hid her face from the crowd's view, and Omar smiled like a delighted child. "Incredible. Absolutely incredible! Forty years have I tended to the sick and injured, and never have I seen such a thing!" Omar bent knee and bowed his head low as he faced the Lion. "Truly a god has come to us today. What is your name, that we may speak of it in this place?"

Rafik's face burst with joy like the morning sun. "It's Aslan!"

Omar lifted his head, as if startled by a war cry. His face fell, and his eyes darted between the Lion and the boy. "That can't be…" He shook his head. "Aslan is not a beast. He cannot be."

"My friend, do not be as deaf and blind as I was," said Reza. "We cannot pretend to know the Aslan of childhood tales—not when the true Aslan is standing in our midst."

Omar glowered at the Lion. "That is easy for Reza to say, as he and his son were brought back to life. For those of us who have not been so fortunate, how can we know you're the true Aslan? Why have you stayed so far away from us? How can I explain the deaths of the men in this city? Dar, Aziz, and now the Sarazen are all dead. If you are the true Aslan, why have you not raised them?"

A wave of indignant looks rippled across the crowd. Some shouted their protests, and the rest waited for an answer.

The Lion padded forward. "I kept myself from Erizad by consent of your people. For decades, this nation heard the prophets and messengers speak of me, but you refused to listen. As for the soldiers who died here, the prologues of those men are over. It is not so of Reza and his family, whose stories are still being told."

At that, a mighty wave of shouts and protests crashed across the courtyard. Men and women stabbed their fingers at the lion, their cries mingling into an incoherent mass of noise. Even the animals stomped their paws and hooves, roaring and whinnying and howling their fury.

A man broke out of the crowd and pulled a dagger from his belt, aiming its blade at the Lion. "At least when the Sarazen was alive, we knew what to expect of him. I will not be ruled by the fancies of a beast who raises his favorites from the dead and leaves the rest to rot in their graves. This is a country ruled by men, by the Sarazen, and by the Mareshahs of our great cities. Whatever you are, leave! Leave this city and never come back!"

A roar of cheers burst out of the crowd, so great that an outsider might have thought the Calormenes had been conquered. Navid and Rafik stared with sad, gleaming eyes at the crowd. Reza looked wistfully at the crowd, feeling that he should join them. Nazira's eyes flashed with anger at Omar, who said nothing and stood with a sullen glare at the Mareshah.

Reza stared sadly for a moment, then turned to face his family. "Nazira, children, we need to leave."

"Reza," said Aslan. His voice was firm but kind. "I still have a task for you."

"They don't want you here," said Reza. "Why should they want any of us?"

"It doesn't matter," said Aslan. "You are still needed here."

"Why can't you be our Sarazen?" said Rafik. "Why can't you fight him?"

"Indeed," said Reza. "Mustafa lied to his people. The deaths of his sons drove him mad, no doubt because you were the one who carried them out. Even so, I would rather have you rule this country than entrust it to men."

"My son, all the wars and conquests of this world have always given way to other wars. There is a greater strength, a greater magic, that is enough to bend the hearts of the greatest warriors of the world. True peace does not come from swords and arrows, but through the changing of hearts. You have met me, you have seen me face to face, and now you will tell others about me and tell them what has happened. That will do more for your people than if I were to capture Andur."

"What about Faraji?" said Navid. "When is he coming home?"

Rafik gazed up at Aslan with eyes just as wide, then turned to Reza. "Why did he leave, Papa? Where did he go?"

"Two weeks ago, we sent him to retrieve some medicine for you." He turned to Aslan. "Why has he not been summoned home? Has no one told him that this was all a mistake?"

"It was no mistake," said Aslan. "A great treachery will be used for great good—not just for those around him, but for Faraji himself, and for Erizad."

Reza's mouth fell open. "Will he come back alive?"

"I cannot promise that," said Aslan. "No matter what happens to him, the story of your lives will carry on, and that alone is within your power and right to change. I ask all of you to trust me—not just for Faraji's sake, but for the sake of this country."

There was another pause. The Lion was staring straight into Reza's eyes, waiting for the head of the family and the Mareshah of Palár to answer him. Reza felt warmth and strength fill his chest and give strength to his trembly limbs, even as he gazed into the incarnation of power and authority. Indeed, he could not dare argue with him, but the Lion's gaze was so tender, so full of sorrow and hope mingling together, why would he want to argue?

A word fell onto his tongue, and he held it back, pondering its meaning. It seemed so strange to say it to Aslan, as it had been spoken to others who seemed worthy of the word, but now someone else was worthy of it—and it seemed to amuse Reza to say it.

"Yes, _mehan."_


	6. Faraji and Philip in Teebeth

**Rolling dunes** of orange sand glistened in the evening light. Like waves in a tumbling river, the dunes fell away into a valley that cradled the city of Teebeth. Ten-foot walls rose up all around clusters of mud-brick homes, with a stately manor towering like a crown jewel of the city. Pikemen and horsemen lined the wall and its turrets, their weapons pointing skyward in their hands.

Faraji tensed at the sight. "When my master and I passed through here, there was no wall around the city."

Philip nickered. "Why can't we tell them what we're doing?"

"Need I tell you?" said Faraji. "I am a recipient of the Red Diamond for excellence in battle, and you're the steed of King Edmund the Just. If we told them the truth, they would arrest us, extract any information from us, and kill us both."

"This cannot possibly end well," said Philip. "You're talking about lying to our enemies—all for the sake of food and water. If we beg for mercy, they would take us as slaves. As if that weren't bad enough, you expect me to pretend I'm a Calormen!"

"Confound it, Narnian, you are not really insulting Aslan—you would only pretend to if the conversation took that turn."

"I will not. Nor will I pray for the Tisroc to live forever."

Faraji growled and turned away. "Well, then, make your choice: Die of hunger, or die of thirst."

The horse paused. "Aslan will not approve of this. It is not his way; it can only end in failure."

"Narnian, understand that I will do whatever I must to save my master's boy. I will go to desperate lengths to procure whatever we need, and right now, our need is desperate. We have traveled without food and water for three days, and if we keep walking at this pace, we will surely die of exhaustion. And need I remind you that we have been walking the land of our enemies—enemies who have attacked both our nations in the last six months, and enemies who consider us to be enemies of the highest rank? This is the only chance we have to get what we need; telling them the truth will only endanger our lives."

Philip pawed at the sand with the edge of a hoof, and a troubled look fell across his face. "I will consent to your plan, spotted one...but know that I am doing this under protest. And I will do it under one condition."

Faraji glared at him in annoyance. He wanted to argue, but held his tongue. It was only a matter of time before Philip dared to make a demand. After all, Philip stopped the Red Death outbreak, and all the survivors in Rasul were in his debt.

The cat let out a grudging sigh. "Name it."

"I will act like your prisoner," said the horse. "It only makes sense. You know the territory, you've studied these people, and you can pass yourself off as one of their own. Besides, I can pretend to be an Erizadi. Traveling with you has taught me how to be pious and miserable."

Faraji glowered at him, then pondered the idea and answered it with a nod.

* * *

 **Flanking the** city gates stood two pikemen in brightly colored robes, their heads wrapped in turbans and their shoes tightening into curls above their toes. The sight made Faraji stifle a furious growl, but he composed himself. As the gates drew nearer, the cat sat upright in the saddle, like a proud statue, and forced a haughty smile up his face.

The pikemen looked at him with curious gazes. "Name, O traveler?"

Faraji lifted his voice in a melodious tone. "I am Saheeb, son of Razeed, son of Arshad, son of Rasheth, the great cheetah who attended Ilsombreh Tisroc, the son of Ardeeb Tisroc who was descended in a right line from the god Tash. And to the glorious Mimash Tarkaan of Teebeth, I have brought this prisoner from Erizad."

The two men glanced at each other in alarm, then turned to the cheetah.

"Skeptical?" said Faraji. "Are you not familiar with the Song of Rasheth, the poem of the great cheetah who slew a hundred men with the help of none?"

The shorter guard nodded slowly, his curling goatee bobbing up and down with each word he spoke. "And where is your master?"

"He was descrated by Reza Munir. Not only did the demon of Palár kill my master, but he allowed my master to be buried in the land of our enemies."

The guard paused. "Forgive our suspicions," he said softly. "We, too, have endured heavy losses at the hands of the Erizadi, what with half the army being sent to Andur three months ago. And now, the fury of Aslan has fallen upon us." The man turned to Philip but aimed his words at Faraji. "Your prisoner ought to be familiar with it. Among his race, it is known as the Red Death."

Philip spoke, forcing an Erizadi accent into his flattening voice. "My people are not responsible for that," he said. "It was one of your own who sentenced Rasul to that...bloody horror."

The guard glared at him. "Is that why you're here?" he muttered. "To get revenge for what we supposedly did?"

Faraji paused. He forced a sad look onto his face, but inside his heart was beating like a war drum. _No,_ he thought. _They brought this disease to us. Surely they cannot be innocent._

The guard lifted his head to face Faraji. "You would know better than any of us. Are the Erizadi planning an assault? We already lost six thousand men in our campaign there; if they blame us for the outbreak, they will unleash the full fury of their army on this place."

Faraji paused. "That means little to me. My only purpose is to sell this cynical creature—preferably, to a master with a fortune."

Philip nickered. "You are a heartless beast."

Faraji gave it no heed. Philip's words were unexpected and uncalled for, and they seemed to be spoken in earnest, but the exchange seemed to satisfy the guards, as they lifted a heavy stone latch and pushed the gates open.

Faraji acknowledged them with a nod and returned to his haughty demeanor. As Philip shuffled into the empty street and rounded a turn around a mudbrick home, Faraji sighed in relief, and Philip's trudge rose to a brisk canter.

"Follow the alley all the way to the palace," said the cheetah. "The stables are on the far side."

Philip whinnied in acknowledgement. "I say, spotted one!" he replied. "Your mastery of their jargon and accent is impressive. Had I not met you, I would think you were one of them."

Faraji grunted. "I was trained not only to find and exploit my enemies' weaknesses, but even to act like my enemies if the situation demands it. My people have trained me well."

Philip chuckled. "Some would say _too_ well."

* * *

 **A Calormene soldier** laid a slab of raw meat inside the stable (which Faraji acknowledged with hardly a nod), and with a glare that could make the water turn to poison, laid a trough of water and a fistful of hay at the horse's hooves. "The Tarkaan will see you within the hour."

Faraji scoffed at him. "Has he no interest in conducting business now?"

"You may be a descendant of the great cat who attended one of our sovereigns, but the Tarkaan's mind is on more urgent matters. If that angers the cheetah aristocracy, so be it."

Faraji murmured his disdain, then turned toward the meal between his paws. When the soldier left, the two ate in silence as dusk turned to dark. They indulged every bite and every draught of water in between; it was the first meal they had eaten since the Red Death swept through Rasul, and the last they knew they would eat for another many days. The two stayed silent as Faraji dipped his paw into the trough and wiped his face and lips, after which he lapped up as much water as his belly would hold.

"We leave later tonight," whispered Faraji, licking his lips. "I will negotiate with the Tarkaan, during which you will wait for me to return. He will make an offer, I will refuse it, and then we will leave."

Philip seemed not to hear it. "Do you still believe the Calormenes did this on purpose?" he said. "These people live for the glories of war and conquest. Sending a man to die in the river and spread the disease to your people is not glorious—it is senseless murder."

"After losing six thousand men in the battle at Andur, they couldn't possibly care about glory now."

"Even if that were true, you have no proof. Motive means nothing."

"But circumstances mean everything," said Faraji. "Two humiliations at the hands of Erizad and Narnia, and now a Calormene brought the disease to my people. This has to be settled, and I will not rest until I settle it."

"If you do that, you will get yourself killed. One cheetah against the Tarkaan and whoever knows how many men in his employment? As far as I'm concerned, you are not the progeny of Rasheth."

"You don't know what I'm capable of."

"No, and I don't want to unless I have to. Spotted one, your master's boy needs you alive. Let Aslan bring justice in due time; as for myself, I am happy with food and water until we get to Zalindreh."

"Confound it, Narnian, you saw what the illness does. As long as we're here, the guilty _will_ answer for what they've done."

"You don't even know who the guilty are. And why must you bring greater suffering to these people, when they have been suffering from the same illness themselves?"

Faraji growled at him. "You are starting to irritate me, Narnian, and well past my limits. If you do not stop blustering, I may just barter for you."

The stable door creaked open, and a man with a long mustache strode through the gap. On cue, Faraji craned his head, and Philip lowered his.

"The Tarkaan is waiting for you, Saheeb."

"Very good," said Faraji in a bugling tone. He turned back to Philip and put on the same air. "If you want to avoid a more unpleasant fate, you _will_ give me the answers I want."

Philip lowered his voice to a breath, and his voice was not Erizadi, but his own. "This is madness."

Faraji had prepared to force a scoff, but it came without effort. A wave of anger and contempt washed over the cheetah as he trotted out of the stables.

* * *

 **If the** Tarkaan's manor was a house of great wealth and opulence (as were so many houses of the Calormene nobles), it was all hidden in shadow. Only the outlines of vaulted ceilings and gaping archways were visible in the low light. The sick and dying were housed here; as he ascended the flights of stairs, he ducked and dodged Calormene soldiers, some carrying the bodies of the dead. _This is not what the man's house ought to be,_ thought Faraji. _For him to be so charitable, he must have been persuaded by his people._

At the top of the last stair, Faraji followed a carved stone railing all the way to the end of a hall, where the brightest light in the house shone through a pair of open doors. Faraji and the soldier swerved through, and on cue, they bowed their heads.

Mimash Tarkaan was rumored to be as pompous as he was fat and bulgy-eyed, and the man's appearance was certainly true. But the lavishly robed man struggled to lift his beard and mustache in the pompous smiles that befitted the Tarkaans of old. His face was weary and haggard, with a beard that had too much growth and too little pruning. His eyes were dark and heavy, no doubt from losing days of sleep, and with a rasping voice, the man said:

"O my guest, with what do you trouble me now?"

Faraji paused. "O my master and the glory of my eyes, I cry your pardon. I come to give you a small recompense for the losses this city has taken."

"What losses could possibly be recompensed by a prisoner from Erizad?" said the Tarkaan. "A ruler is powerless without subjects, and my own subjects are bleeding and dying, as if they have all been cursed by the gods. For what purpose would this prisoner serve—an offering to our lord? A pack animal carrying the bodies of the dead?"

A pang of pity welled up in Faraji. He remembered how the donkeys and horses trudged out of Rasul, carrying bodies in carts to be burned at the edge of town. "My master, I am not unfeeling toward your plight. For I was in Erizad longer than I wished; I drank of the stream at the edge of their northernmost town, and I was unfortunate enough to endure that plight myself. However, as I have been away so long and have not been privy to the events of late, I must ask: Is our nation to blame itself for this accident? Or was it an accident, and are we so cowardly that we can't confront our enemies in battle?"

Faraji's heart accelerated as he saw the Tarkaan's eyes framed by creases. He awaited the man's angry reply, but was surprised to see his anger was not at him. "I have wondered as much," he said. "I sent messengers to the towns at the head of the river, and they reported nothing. No one else knows anything about the man who fell dead. Instead, they fear that an attack by Erizad is imminent."

"Because of what happened in Rasul?"

"You know it isn't that alone. When I sent my army to invade Palár, the objective was to capture Andur. Even though my army was routed, we will never be shown any mercy. The wrath of Erizad was kindled like a fire, and we fear the Red Death may have only incensed the whole country. Saheeb, you know what has happened there. If you know something about the events in Erizad, I implore you to tell me now."

The cheetah barely heard what had been said. His breath was threatening to leave him in furious bursts. Whatever it was that kept him from attacking the man, he did not know. _By the Man's sword and shield,_ said Faraji to himself, barely hiding his astonishment. _You sent that army into my country._

But with a slow, steady breath, the cheetah let only a frown fall upon his face. "I know only what my prisoner has told me—that Erizad is only contemplating an attack. The outbreak in Rasul cost nearly a hundred lives, to say nothing about the many more lives that may be lost if the illness spreads. Far as I'm concerned, that country is to be pitied, not feared."

The Tarkaan nodded and paused, interlacing his fingers. His eyes wandered to the open window, to the smiling moon in the west. "As late as it is," he said softly, "I will not rest until I have answers." He turned to Faraji. "Bring the prisoner to the dungeon."

"To what end, my master? He is clearly of no use to you."

"So I thought. Then again, he might know something. If he learns to fear the wrath of a Tarkaan, he might just loosen his tongue."

Faraji's breath caught in his throat. Not even a Narnian was worthy of such suffering. Even so, he caught himself and bowed his head on cue. "To hear is to obey."

And it was only when the Tarkaan dismissed him, when the cheetah swerved out of the room and into the darkened halls, that he let his face fall.

* * *

 **Philip's mouth** fell open. "That cannot be."

"It was the Tarkaan who sent the army to attack Andur!" roared Faraji. "Confound it, if I could work my will, I would have torn his head from his neck!"

"Spotted one—"

"ENOUGH!" said Faraji. "I am well past the point of reason. These people do not deserve my pity. They deserve to bleed and writhe in agony—every last one who consented to this attack!"

"I implore you, spotted one, to stop and _think,"_ said Philip. "This is not about pity. We are in a nation full of our enemies, and you will hear things from them that are no less horrific than what you have just heard. Right now, you and I are in danger, and we have no way to leave without arousing suspicion. You need to keep calm and carry out the plan to completion—which, need I remind you, was your plan."

"You don't need to remind me of it, Narnian. I made it."

Faraji huffed and marched away, stopping to collect his breath. His broad chest bellowed and contracted with each huff. Philip waited for a reply, giving a nervous whinny. The cat's anger had subsided, giving way to a solemn frown.

"Pray that I can continue to hide my true feelings," he said darkly. "The Tarkaan has agreed to barter with me."

Philip paused. "How is that supposed to help us? This was not part of the plan."

Faraji glowered at him. "We have no choice," he said. "You said it yourself: We cannot leave until we let this run its course. Now come."

Philip snorted and brushed the hay away with his tail. "This was not the course it should have taken." He shuddered and rose up on his knobby legs, shaking the hay and dust out of his mane.

They made two turns left and right before passing through a yawning arch. Falling below them was an incline that disappeared into the darkness. The darkness grew heavier and wetter with each step, and the smells of rotting hay mixed with sewage and salty blood clogged the air. Philip and Faraji tasted bile on the backs of their tongues, but they withheld their words.

Before them towered a pair of stone doors barred by a beam. With a lift of the beam, the doors squealed open, and Faraji and the soldiers marched through the gap, with Philip shuffling between them. Another turn, and the corner around them was filled with orange light. A fire roared in a pit, and glowing pokers stuck out of it hither and thither.

Philip started to ask what was happening, but one look at the man's face, and he knew. A soldier picked up a poker and held it up to the horse's snout.

Philip nickered and shuddered at the sight. "Is this how you get me to comply?"

Faraji paused. Whether that was aimed at him or at the soldier, he could not tell. The cat swung away to face the other man and opened his mouth to speak, but his words fell into his mouth. The pike-wielding man stared at him with a sudden flash of anger.

"I know you," said the soldier. The man tightened his hands around the neck of the pike. "You were with _him,"_ he said softly. "That demon, Reza Munir—you are his bondservant."

The soldier next to Philip lowered his glowing poker. "What?"

Faraji nodded and gave a cruel smile. "Were I in a merciful mood, I would order you both to stand down. As it is, you are threatening to torture the only ally I have in the North. I cannot let that happen."

Faraji roared and leapt into the air. The man's eyes and mouth gawked in horror as the cheetah bowled him over and bit into the man's neck.

The other soldier burst toward Faraji and roared, "ERIZADI DOG!"

The poker whistled through the air in a flurry of sparks as Faraji tumbled out of the way, spraying thick blood in an arc over his head. Faraji bit into the man's ankle, and the poker clanged against the floor in a shower of sparks. The poker tumbled to the floor, its glowing tip landing on the cheetah's shoulder. Faraji roared in agony and crumpled to the floor.

The man scrambled to his feet, clutching the poker in his hand. He brought it down against Faraji's neck, loosing another wave of blazing pain. Faraji screamed until his voice cracked, but one look at Philip filled him with a surge of power. He clasped his jaws around the man's ankle. Faraji twisted his head, and the soldier toppled backward, his body slamming onto the ground.

The cheetah shuddered and winced in pain, but his steps were steady and strong. He stood upon the man's bony chest and met his furrowing eyes.

What happened next, Philip didn't know. All the horse saw was Faraji's paw coming down in a sweeping, hurtling arc, and a gurgling cough was followed by silence. Then there was the sloshing of water, as if someone were washing his hands, and a soft padding of paws on the stone floor as Faraji emerged from the cell, his mouth hanging open to catch a breath.

Philip stared at him in awe and horror, his breath falling in shallow bursts. "Spotted one...are you all right?"

Faraji closed his eyes and gave a shallow nod. He shuddered and grunted in pain. "I was in worse pain...when the Red Death had its grip on me."

Without warning, Faraji and Philip jolted in place. The massive doors slammed open, and in their place stood the Tarkaan, his eyes bulging. "What have you done to my men?" he said. "Have you an explanation?"

Faraji nodded, and a sly smile fell upon his face. "I do," he said. "Hear my name, O Tarkaan, and despair: I am Faraji, _jamira_ of Mareshah Reza Munir."

The cat crouched and tensed like a coil, and his claws unsheathed. "This is for the people you killed in Andur—"

"No, spotted one."

Faraji's eyes bulged out. He swung around, baring his fangs at the horse. "Shut up."

Philip shook his angular head, tossing his mane. "This charade has gone on long enough, and it's about to cost us our lives." He turned to the Tarkaan. "Sir, I am Philip, steed of King Edmund the Just of Narnia. Faraji and I are on a mission of mercy. All we ask is for safe passage through your country."

The Tarkaan's eyes narrowed. "To what end?"

"I am here on behalf of my friend," he said. "He and I thought that if you knew who we were, you would not grant us safe passage or even a meal. We have had a hard journey. What Faraji told you about the Red Death is true—he suffered from it himself."

The Tarkaan huffed and glared at Faraji. "You killed my men. Why should I let you free?"

Faraji glared back at the Tarkaan. "If you want my head, then take it—I daresay I would be relieved of it if I went back to Erizad—but let the Narnian go. He is innocent."

The Tarkaan shook his head. "Even an accomplice is to be tried and convicted if he is guilty of a crime," he said darkly. "But if the demons of Narnia and Erizad get word of your execution, it will mean the overthrow of Calormen and all her nobles. And, as I seem to have no men who can come to my aid..."

He brought down the tip of his pike with a loud slam.

"Begone. _Both_ of you. But as you leave, let this warning haunt your every step: I will send word to the Tisroc that you are in this land, and that the cheetah has killed two of my men. Should you try our patience again, your nations will know what a nightmare it is to stoke the wrath of a Tarkaan. As for the both of you, I will personally capture you and extract every plot and plan you have. If that does not kill you, then I will kill you myself."

Faraji growled and stifled his seething breath. "All I want is to save my master's boy," said the cheetah. "Regardless of what has transpired between our nations, I do not want war."

The Tarkaan smirked at Faraji. "I hope that's true," he said—"for your sake."

* * *

 **Teebeth was** a flickering candle on the horizon by the time Philip worked up the courage to break the silence. "This could have ended more happily for us."

Faraji glowered as he lay slumped across Philip's back. The burns on his shoulder and neck still screamed in agony. "I am a recipient of the Red Diamond for excellence in battle," he said through a shudder. "We have had a fair meal, and we will last until we reach the next waterway. I should call that a success, even if you don't."

"Spotted one, I tried to tell you: Aslan's ways are the only ways that never fail. Disobey them, and your successes will only lead to failures."

"Don't lecture me about Aslan's ways," said Faraji. "I know them. Aslan ordered me to go to Narnia, and that's what I'm doing."

"You know his laws. You know what every Narnian lives by, and you don't even live by it." Philip waited for Faraji to answer, but no reply came. "There's a truth that supersedes all the laws of war and conquest: Aslan is always right. None of his ways will ever permit deception and duplicity. Had you only listened to me, none of this would have happened. If you had only believed in Aslan and done as I said, you wouldn't have murdered those two soldiers, and you wouldn't be incurring the wrath of Aslan and dooming your boy because of what you did. I only hope this does not come back to haunt both of us."

"You listen to me, Narnian," he said. "I saved your life. I got us a meal. This may not have happened the way either of us had planned, and it may not have pleased Aslan as you think it should have, but it _worked._ Instead of threatening me, perhaps you owe me a debt of gratitude."

"I saved one of your towns from further infection; it is you who owe a debt of gratitude," said the horse. "But that is neither here nor there. We needed Aslan today, and we disobeyed. If he is not merciful to us both, what we did will cost us, and those burns you suffered will only be the least of your worries."

"I do not appreciate being threatened with your sovereign's wrath."

"I do not make threats, spotted one. I am simply telling you what is true. It was Aslan who said, 'Things always work according to their nature.'"

Terror welled up in Faraji's chest, but he held back his fearful words. "Even so," he said, "you got a meal and water because of _me,_ not him."

Nothing more was said. Philip cantered on, crossing over dune after dune as the stars turned overhead, and Faraji rested in the lull of Philip's rhythmic trot until the cold night came to an end.


	7. Something Worth Knowing

**_A/n:_** _T_ _his chapter was supposed to be called "How Philip Discovered Something Worth Knowing," but the site won't let me post a title that long._

* * *

 **The air** grew heavy and moist as Faraji and Philip reached the coast. Dawn arrived blue and cold as Zalindreh rose into view, its buildings silhouetted against the gloomy light. Philip let out a neigh of relief; he said something about rest and a meal at long last. Faraji didn't hear it; a melancholy look fell upon the cheetah's dour face—a look of wistful longing mixed with a flash of anger. Just as quickly as it appeared, it fell away, as Philip's voice became filled with worry.

"By the Lion's mane," he said. "Do you smell that, spotted one?"

Faraji broke out of his trance and drew in a light breath. "I should wonder if I have smelled it before."

"It was exactly what I found in the river in Erizad," said Philip. "It's the smell of death again."

Faraji gulped down a knot in his throat. The port city sat upon an inlet of land rising over the ocean, like an eagle surveying the sea from its perch on a cliff. The city had ten times as many buildings as Teebeth could boast, and half stood taller. _Tens of thousands live here,_ said the cheetah. _And if the Red Death is here, and he can smell it…this may be my chance to help._

"You would know better than I," said the horse. "Will we find friends here?"

"Only if we have something worth trading. Since we have no goods to speak of, we might as well offer our help."

"Indeed. As long as you tell the truth about our journey and offer our services as a token of friendship, I see no reason for them to not let us in."

* * *

 **The guard** pushed a hand forward. "I cannot let you in."

"I implore you, my friend. All we want is food," said Faraji.

"Even so, I cannot let you in until circumstances improve."

"What circumstances?"

"Surely you know of the illness. Zalindreh has not suffered yet, and our masters want to make sure of it."

" _Mehan_ , the disease may have arrived. The Narnian and I smelled and tasted it in the waters of Erizad, and now we're smelling it here."

"Do you expect me to believe that?" said the guard. "I have been stationed here since midnight and have smelled nothing."

"Nor did any of the Sons of Adam," said Philip.

"Then why should I believe you? How can I be sure you won't spread this disease to us?"

"All we want is to follow the smell to its source," said Faraji. "You can allow us into your city, put soldiers on our flanks, even keep the Narnian out here and lead me by the blade of a sword. All we want is to be of service. If we are, perhaps your master will grant us a meal. If we find nothing, all you will have given us is your time."

The soldier seemed to be considering the offer. "If I inform the Tarkaan," he said slowly, "who will I say has arrived?"

Faraji's heart went into his throat. He felt Philip tensing beneath the saddle, as if warning Faraji to tell the truth.

"I..." Faraji let out a breath and bowed his head. "I am Faraji, the _jamira_ of Reza Munir of Palár. This is Philip, the steed of King Edmund the Just. As you no doubt know of my deeds in Teebeth, on behalf of the Narnian I must plead with you for leniency."

* * *

 **The stone wall** rumbled along its track and slid into the wall with a loud boom. Dark filled the jail cell, and the smell of rotting hay and mouse dander threaten to make Faraji gag. The cat scrambled to his feet and shook the hay and dirt off his pelt. "I suppose this is what they call leniency."

"They have no choice," said Philip. "You killed two men in Teebeth, and for all they know, you will kill a dozen more here."

Faraji sighed. "I don't suppose they will be lenient enough to feed us."

Philip let out a low breath. "Food or no food, at least we can rest. Besides, I still have my conscience, which is of greater sustenance than any feast."

Faraji scoffed. "Spoken like a man on the gallows, who smiles because he has his health."

The cheetah huffed away and jumped onto the stone bench that jutted out from the wall. He tucked his paws under his chest and glanced upward. At ground level sat a slim, barred window, and the newborn sun had just begun to shine through. "I only hope your conscience comforts you when the Calormenes forget we're in here."

"We will not be forgotten, spotted one," said Philip. "Aslan has more for us to do than rot in a hole."

"What you fail to realize, Narnian, is that unlike you and your people, Calormenes do not simply tremble at the name of Aslan. The only way to reason with them is by duplicity and façade."

"I am quite familiar with their disrespect toward Aslan. But because of _your_ duplicity, two Calormenes are dead."

Faraji sighed. "Lest you forget, Narnian, I was trying to save your life."

"You _had_ to save my life because you bartered with the Tarkaan, and you _had_ to do that because you lied to the guards about our identities. Until now, every move you've made has been wrong. My compliments to you for finally listening to common sense, but it's too late to reverse the consequences of all the other choices you've made."

"I've had quite enough of you," said Faraji. "If you will only allow me to sleep, I would be most grateful. Now that we are in here, Aslan won't dare to come after me now. It is only when I am vulnerable when he would attack, and I would like the opportunity to rest in safety, if that wouldn't be any trouble."

Philip scoffed. "Not at all."

The cat tucked his paws under his belly and curled himself into a ball, wrapping his tail along his spine.

Faraji's nap was shallow and dreamless, and when he awoke, he saw that hazy gray light of noon wandered in through the window. The stone wall rolled away and a man stood in the entrance, and Faraji darted up and sat on his haunches. The young Calormene's head was wrapped in a turban with a spike protruding out of the folds. A slim mustache stretched over his upper lip, and his chest rose and fell as it gathered his weary breath.

"I am Naresh, captain of the guard of the Tarkaan's house. One of my men said you were willing to help us; did he speak the truth?"

Philip nodded. "Of course."

The man let out a weary breath. His forehead glistened with sweat, the kind you gather after a hard run. "We need it. Two of my men are bleeding from the nose and mouth. Seventeen civilians have reported to our doctors with the same symptoms, and it's only getting worse. Whatever you have to offer that is of any use, I will take it."

Faraji rose onto all fours and swerved off the bench; he knew what Philip was going to say before the horse opened his mouth. "Have any of your animals reported a foul smell in the water?"

"No, but all of them have told me of a strange taste in the air."

"When the last Red Death outbreak swept through this city, was there ever a problem with the water?"

"No."

Faraji could see Philip glowering at him, but the cat paid it no heed. "What about imports?"

"The last ships left port yesterday evening."

"What was on the ships? Anything _—anyone—_ that could have carried the disease?"

"There were no prisoners from the Eastern Islands. No animals. Most of it was food."

"Once these foodstuffs are unloaded, where are they sent?"

"To any Tarkaan who ordered them. We sent caravans to Calavar and Azim Balda last month. The last shipment to this city arrived…" At that, the man's face fell in horror. "Yesterday morning."

Faraji's face fell. "It must be something in the shipment," said the cat. "Symptoms appear within less than a day."

Philip nickered. "That doesn't make sense. Why would Teebeth be overwhelmed by this when no caravans went out to them in the last month?"

"What else could it be, Narnian? It's the only explanation that makes a measure of sense!"

"We don't know enough, spotted one, and until we know more, your guess is no better than mine."

"You don't have a guess!"

Philip ignored him. "Naresh, if it please you, I want to inspect every kind of food that arrived yesterday. If the smell is in any of it, I will know."

With a somber look, Naresh waved a hand, and Faraji and Philip followed him up the stairs. "My commanding officer said you wanted a meal in exchange for your services," he said. "That may be granted."

They showed no sign of relief. Philip was even more somber as all set foot, hoof, and paw at the top of the stairs, wondering what else they would see as they wove through the labyrinthine streets. Meanwhile, Faraji glowered at the horse, and his lithe body tensed with every step, ready to make a move.

* * *

 **A line** of men, women and children filed into the stairwell that dropped below ground to the dungeon of the ruins of an old castle. All held cloths to their noses and mouths as blood soaked and stained the fabric, and a pair of soldiers stood guard, ushering people in and passing fresh towels to all who asked. "By the Lion's mane," said Philip, his whisper barely heard over the coughing and crying. "There must be at least sixty people in this line."

 _"Now_ do you acknowledge my thoughts for once?" said Faraji. "Something is in this city, and it must have come in yesterday."

"We still don't know, spotted one."

"Yes, and we will not know as long as you keep proposing desperate ideas," said Naresh. "I don't want you on this mission. Let me and the Narnian handle it."

Faraji bared his fangs. "I am on a mission of great importance. This is my journey, not his."

"The gods did not bless you with the wisdom or the smell of a horse," said Naresh. "You have much between your ears, and most of it is irrelevant. Go with the soldiers to the cellar; do these people a favor and try to comfort them."

"I will not play nursemaid to the dying. I am here to rescue this city and this country from the Red Death, and that is what I will do."

"Spotted one!"

Faraji growled at him. "You had your chance to be a hero in Rasul. This is my time."

Philip laid a hoof on the cat's tail. Within a blink, Faraji burst in a furious whirl of fur and claws, and a pawful of claws sliced into Philip's shank. The horse screamed in terror and sent his front legs airborne, and Naresh ducked back and aimed his pike at the cat's head. Faraji scrambled onto all fours as Philip landed, and the cheetah's jaws peeled back to show every serrated tooth as he roared:

"THIS IS NOT YOUR HONOR! IT'S MINE!"

Naresh aimed a furious glare at him, keeping the pike aimed at the cat's head.

Philip was gasping for breath as he said, "You don't deserve honor, Erizadi." His voice was low and cold. "You attacked me…you insulted me…now a city is dying…and you can't think of anyone but yourself."

Naresh waved his hand to a pair of soldiers in the road, and the turbaned men stood at attention, awaiting Naresh's command. "Take the cheetah back to the prison."

Faraji glared at him. "What?! No! I'm here to help!"

The soldiers ignored him and flanked him on both sides. One of them swung the blunt end of his pike across the cat's face; Faraji hissed and yowled as the other clamped a shackle around his neck. The chain jangled as the soldiers walked away, starting to drag Faraji across the stone floor. "DAMN YOU, NARNIAN!" said Faraji. "IF I DON'T HELP, ASLAN WILL KILL ME!"

Naresh let out a sigh and knelt down to wrap Philip's bleeding shank in a cloth. Philip gave a soft whinny and shook his head, staring down the street as Faraji wriggled and squirmed. "It would serve you right, you little beast," said the horse. "Please, Naresh, lead the way."

The two passed under a towering arch and swung right. One look at the kitchen and its dozens of pots, pans, furnaces and jars would make you think you had stepped into the kitchen of the Tisroc, but Philip paid it barely any attention. Two soldiers, as their superior had ordered, stood at either end of a twenty-foot counter, where fruits and vegetables and grains and morsels of all sorts had been laid in a single file along a gray-and-black mosaic.

Philip nickered and bent his head over the counter. The onions, mushrooms and sweet peppers radiated enough color and flavor to make your mouth pang, and the grains gave off their earthy aromas that hearkened Philip back to the fresh grass of Narnia. The sweets and bottles of a strong liquor all smelled as they ought. At the end of the line sat a dark red pepper that looked choked and wrinkled, as if someone had tried to squeeze the juice out of its flesh. Philip didn't need to inhale deeply; one sniff was all he needed.

The horse lifted his head and turned to face Naresh. "I don't understand," he murmured. "The smell is still in the room, but it's not in any of these foods."

Naresh nodded. "There should be more," he said, turning to his soldiers. "Go to the cellar. Bring up whatever else you—"

"Wait a moment..." Philip's voice trailed off. "If I could follow the smell..." His head swiveled one way, then the other, and back again. With a nicker, the horse clopped along the floor, step by dawdling step to keep from losing the trail. He followed it to the yawning archway that opened to face the street, and he panned left and right again. To his left, stairs trailed up along the side of the house. "It goes out," he said, "and then...up these stairs to..."

Philip took in a short breath, and another. "If you please, Sir, what is up these stairs?"

Naresh started to speak, and the meaning of his own reply struck him. "Damn it. The Tarkaan is giving a feast— _now."_

The man broke into a run and bounded up the stairs. Philip followed behind, his hooves slamming against the slabs. The stairs wound like a ribbon along the side of the manor, and Philip feared he might slip and tumble through an arch and plummet to the ground ( _If I do, Faraji had better not be watching,_ he thought). Naresh disappeared around the bend, and Philip panted and slipped around the corner, scrabbling with his back hooves to regain his balance.

At the end of the hall gaped an archway flanked by soldiers, and from deep inside bellowed a regal and pompous-sounding man: "Let the feast...begin!" Platters and utensils clattered as Naresh and Philip burst through the curtains, and Naresh burst toward an aisle and charged between two long rows of tables as he said:

"My Lord, wait!"

The room filled with murmurs and complaints. The Tarkaan furrowed his face in protest. "Am I your servant, that you should put us off our meal—and worse, that you should bring a Narnian to haunt us?"

"My Lord, the gods may be smiling on us again. They have sent this traveler into our country to help us find the cause of our troubles." He turned to Philip, who gave a shy whinny.

"Sir, the illness that has brought great suffering to your people is being spread by something in the food. I followed the smell up here, and I can only conclude that something in this hall has been contaminated with the disease."

Another wave of murmurs rippled back and forth across the room. Even the Tarkaan showed a hint of surprise on his hard face. "And what do you request?"

"Only to inspect every dish that has been brought into this hall." Philip sniffed the air and repressed the urge to gag. "If I may, Sir, I should fancy starting with yours."

The Tarkaan turned to Naresh. His mouth hung open in a mix of anger and bewilderment. "He wants to smell of my meal, he says?"

"My Lord, if it brings us closer to ending this tragedy, it is hardly an inconvenience."

"Putting me and my guests off our food is more than an inconvenience. It is a disgrace. Twenty soldiers of the highest ranks are dining with me; we do not need a Narnian to spoil the celebration."

"My Lord, if the Narnian does not say anything of use to us, we can deal with him. But if he does, we need to hear it—for our sakes."

"Whinny-inny!" said Philip. "I can also tell you for certain what foods _are_ safe to eat. Every mushroom, pepper, grain—"

The Tarkaan waved a hand. "Enough. Do what you must, and be gone."

Philip sighed in relief as the servants laid the platter on the table, and the horse bent his head down over the food. When his head hovered over the pearly white fish, he lurched backward and shuddered.

"Sir, that is most definitely the smell of the Red Death. Bring any of your Talking Beasts in here; they will confirm it."

This time, the murmurs were followed with gasps. The Tarkaan blanched a little, his mouth lowering. "Naresh, go to the ruins. Ask them if they have eaten any of the _balik."_

Naresh nodded and turned on his heel. As the footsteps faded on their way up the stairwell, the Tarkaan rose up from his seat, like a great and terrible king ready to proclaim a fearful declaration. To the horse's surprise, the man's hard face began to soften in relief and fear. "Let the feast be postponed. I will order my slaves to prepare food per the Narnian's request. Until we know more, I will ask you to bear with me as we sort out this matter."

The Tarkaan glowered at Philip as he waved a hand. Two pikemen flanked the horse on both sides.

"Take him back to the prison. Let him wait until we decide what to do with him and anyone who may be with him. And let them be warned: Should we discover that this grand feast was disturbed for no reason, or if any of their dire warnings have been proven false, they will answer for everything they've done, for every crescent and minute that has been wasted."

Philip nodded in resignation, and he followed the soldiers out of the dining hall.

* * *

 **A day and night** passed, or so Philip had thought. He had slept so long in a windowless cell that he had forgotten all sense of time. Whether he had skipped an entire day, he did not know, though he felt weak enough to wonder.

Now and then, Philip listened for Faraji, for any sign of life outside the cell, but heard nothing. He and Faraji were kept in separate cells on the order of the Tarkaan (something about a conspiracy, or so Philip had overheard). A clump of hay was given every evening, a pail of water that smelled of earth, but nothing else. Philip nibbled and sipped without complaint, though he still felt weaker than he did when they had left Teebeth.

A muffled jangling made his head swivel. There was a grunt and a scuff of dirt, and the rolling door slid on its track. Naresh loosed his grip on the edge of the stone and strode inside. His thin face was somber but glad, making Philip's heart leap within. "You were right—it was the _balik."_

Philip sighed. "How many?"

Naresh shook his head. "No fewer than four hundred."

Philip gave a soft neigh and stood on his spindly legs. "And what about us?"

"Come," said Naresh, slipping a key into the wall. "I will explain everything to you both."

He propped a foot against the doorway and splayed his hands on the stone, and with a grunt the wall rolled away. In the wan light, Faraji gathered himself and stood to attention. He aimed an angry glare at Philip (who knew the cheetah had not risen out of his mood).

"It's all right," said Naresh. "You both are free to go. The Narnian was right: Every last man, woman and animal who has fallen ill in the first wave of sickness? All of them have eaten the _balik."_

Faraji stared at the horse, but aimed his words at Naresh. "Are you certain?"

"We are. Per the orders of the Tarkaan, no one has caught or sold any _balik_ in two days, and all who have eaten it were ordered to stay in their homes. We have been patrolling the city for the last three days, and only twelve people have fallen ill since yesterday. As of now, there are no new cases to report."

Philip let out a sigh of relief that gave way to a laugh of triumph, which made Faraji glare all the harder.

Naresh let a small smile tug at his mustache. "The Tarkaan is sending you off with his blessing. To the Tisroc (may he live forever), he has sent a request for safe travel and any provisions you need in Tashbaan. In the meantime, you will need to stay a little longer."

Faraji swallowed a knot in his throat. "How long?"

Naresh waved a hand toward the open doorway and said, "However long it takes us to fit you with all the food and water you can hold."

* * *

 **Neither** horse nor cheetah spoke as Zalindreh drifted away behind them. Philip was too relieved and merry to complain, and Faraji too dismal to say anything worth his effort. It was much easier to glower at the horse. They were walking on seashore, with Philip carrying bags filled with food and water, but the horse's canter was so merry, one would think he had been walking on clouds.

"You can stop that, Narnian," he said. "I am quite aware that my part in this has been a miserable failure, largely thanks to _you."_

"I beg your pardon? I was not the one who attacked a horse."

"You knew Aslan was angry at me for what I had done in Teebeth. I had a chance to make amends with him by doing something worth praising. Instead of giving me the opportunity, you stole it from me."

"If you are as educated as you would lead me to believe, you should know Aslan does not permit rivalry. Because you are too proud and too desperate to salvage what little reputation you have, you have only doomed yourself to learning the lesson again. Besides, the Erizadi are an arrogant and foolish race; it does them good to be humbled, and as often as possible."

Faraji let out a voiceless chuckle. "The time will come when you eat your words, Narnian."

"Why? I speak only what is true. You know nothing about Narnia or the ways of Aslan. And by the way, I think it is quite clear why Aslan has sent you on this journey: to humble you. That, and to teach you that Narnians are not the uneducated derelicts you think we are. I do not need a scholarly upbringing to teach me what I already know by heart."

"Oh, and what do you know? How to bluster at length?"

"At least when I bluster, I say words that people understand. You, however, speak as though you swallowed a book."

"How droll."

"Worse than that, you fancy yourself to be greater than all the Narnians put together. You think of me as being utterly beneath contempt. There is yet another lesson to be learned, and it is something only Aslan can teach you if you were willing to learn: Pride is an illness, and it kills every living thing it touches. Even the Red Death cannot match its deadly power." Philip craned his head with a proud huff. "You would do well to learn that, spotted one."

Faraji growled. "Someday, you will regret your piety and arrogance, and I will be sorry if I am not a witness to it. Ever since we met, all you've done is ridicule and insult me, and you've blustered about the wrath of Aslan whenever I've made a mistake." The cheetah turned away. "I won't miss you when this journey is over."

Faraji turned away and lost his gaze in the scrolling golden shore beneath his paws.


	8. Tashbaan

**Tashbaan split** the river in two and stood above the land like a bronze pillar of stone. Circular terraces filled with crammed homes and gardens rose all around; at the tip of the city stood the temple of Tash like the great jewel of a splendid crown. A long, low blast of a horn filled the air, and Faraji and Philip trotted toward the southern bridge, where traders and travelers filed to pass through the gates.

"After what you did in our last two misadventures," said Philip as he rose on his spindly legs, "I hope you find an ounce of restraint."

"Don't worry, Narnian," said Faraji, leaping into the saddle. "I've been rebuked by you often enough. Besides, I have already had enough misadventure."

"Good. Besides, I should fancy staying here longer than a day. I have a friend here."

"We should still be on our guard, Narnian," said the cheetah. "Lest you forget, we have enemies in Calormen, and some won't be so grateful for your noble deed in Zalindreh."

"I should think not," said Philip. "One can expect ten enemies for every noble deed."

Faraji rolled his eyes and let out a sigh, but Philip didn't hear it.

"Spotted one, in case we meet with resistance, I still have my letter from High King Peter. It's in the small pouch atop my saddle."

Faraji tilted his head. Something in Philip's remark struck him uneasy. A nervous queasiness filled his stomach, and his eyes flicked side to side, as if looking for something to say. "Narnian...am I to understand that you received a letter from Peter?"

"Of course. Didn't you ever wonder why I had come all the way to Erizad?"

Faraji's mouth hung open. "I had assumed Aslan had sent you. The timing seemed too perfect for anything else."

"Did it never occur to you to wonder why he had sent me?"

"No. I am an Erizadi. I receive my orders and question them as little as possible."

"Then let me enlighten you, if only you would listen for a change," said Philip. "After their assault on Archenland, some of the Calormenes under Prince Rabadash kidnapped the horses in my troop. They were stolen right out of the stables in Anvard, the poor souls. I chased them across the Great Desert and all the way to Tashbaan, and after a month of traveling and fighting, I freed all but one, who had been killed after resisting his captor. Just as I was about to go home, I had met a friend in Tashbaan—actually, a friend of two of my friends—and she told me she received a letter from High King Peter. The rest, as they say, is history."

"I should wonder if history is as it seems," said Faraji, staring between Philip's flicking ears. "At any rate, we could be waiting a while to be let into the city. The guards are checking everyone at the gates."

"There must be some sort of festival," said Philip. "That, or an important fellow passing through."

Faraji paused. "We may be a while yet, and I should like to read the letter. Ever since we left Erizad, I have not read anything whatsoever for leisure."

Philip nodded. "By all means."

With that, Faraji pulled open the pouch with a clawed paw and lowered his muzzle, snatching the letter in his fangs. He pulled open the letter with his paw and crouched down in the saddle to read.

 _Dear Philip:_

 _I want to commend you for your valiant work in Anvard and Calormen. You have fought and bled for Narnia and Archenland, and you are sorely missed, far more now than you were before. My dear brother wants you to return to Anvard as swiftly as you can run, but on this matter he and I do not agree. As High King of Narnia, I am sending you to Erizad on a mission of great importance. We have received word from an herbalist that Reza Munir, the Mareshah of Palar, is requesting immediate assistance. His elder son has been suffering from a long-lasting and deadly fever and is in urgent need of care. Per the Lion's instructions, you will escort their cheetah_ , _Faraji, to Cair Paravel, where he may be of service to us in exchange for the medicine, after which he will be free to return to Erizad and give his master's boy the medicine he needs. As this mission will no doubt take as long as it needs, we will see you in Cair Paravel upon your arrival._

 _High King Peter_

As soon as Faraji's eyes fell across the signature, a troubled sigh fell from his chest. He read the letter twice over, and another queasy pang rushed over him. "Narnian, are you certain Peter wrote this letter?"

The horse snorted and started to tense. "Of course I am."

"I'm not. I spent three years learning how to spot forgeries and frauds, and this letter gives half the signs of it. Anyone who attempts to pass himself off as someone else will almost always sound to some degree like himself. I don't know who wrote it, but I can tell you who _didn't._ "

"Come now, spotted one! I would not have been fooled by this. Besides, how would you know the manner in which he speaks? You've never met him before."

"Do you know how he writes? Have you ever read one of his proclamations?"

"No, because I don't have to. For one, he knows what he wants to say; he doesn't need anyone to write his words for him. For another, when he issues a proclamation, he does not write it as though he were delivering a speech. Surely _you_ would understand that the spoken and written voice are quite different things."

"I've read his proclamations, Narnian. I'm telling you, this letter sounds like someone else—and strangely enough, I feel as though it was written by someone I know."

"Who would have written it? One of your enemies? I find that hard to believe. Why would they send me all the way to you, when they could have captured and killed me in Tashbaan? Moreover, why would they send you into the North? Your master is a highly decorated soldier and warrior; would they not summon _him_ into the North if they had the means?"

Faraji sighed. "All fair questions," he said. "Unfortunately, I have no fair answers."

"Small wonder, since you and your people know so much of what isn't so," said Philip. "You think Aslan is a man, you don't know what a lion is, and now you accuse someone of impersonating my own sovereign."

"Forgive me if I offended you, Narnian," said Faraji. "When I give my opinion of something, it is always an honest one—even if it may be in error."

"For our sakes, I should hope you _are_ in error about this."

 _So do I,_ thought Faraji. "There is one thing I should hope to know," he said aloud. "Who is this friend of yours?"

* * *

" **She was** always such a strange girl," said the Tarkheena. "She had everything a woman in her station could ever want. She had a horse. She was engaged to a Tarkaan. And of course, she could have seen plenty of me. Instead, she gave up everything and everyone for Narnia and the North."

Lasaraleen kept staring into the looking glass. She fussed with her hair until it had curled over her shoulder at precisely the perfect angle. "Oh, I wish Aravis were still here. She could help me through these dreary breakfasts. What's more, she could see my new pets. She could even help me care for them, the poor animals."

" _Meha,_ forgive me," said Faraji. He stifled a weary sigh; the conversation had drifted away when Philip mentioned Bree and Hwin, and they had gotten no closer to Faraji's question. "You said one of your slave girls delivered the letter. Did she tell you who gave it to her?"

"No," said Lasaraleen in a thoughtful tone, "but it is her duty to receive my mail. What more should I know?"

"If I may, I would like to speak with her."

"Certainly," she said. "You can ask her after the breakfast."

Faraji nodded. "Fair enough."

The cat's ears revolved to the back of his head as footfalls echoed down the long hallway. The curtain brushed back, and Lasaraleen started to tense; the smile on her face seemed to appear with great effort. Behind them stood a man with a spike protruding from his turban. Faraji forced back a scoff, as the man's muscular frame seemed to be stuffed into his pleated red uniform. But one look at the man's face made Faraji tense. It was not such an arrogant frown, for it was too angry for that; nor was it such an extravagant beard, for it was a chiseled point of hair groomed at the base of his chin. It was his eyes, not to mention the smile he screwed onto his lean face, that made Faraji think one word: _murder._

"Well, love," said the man. His voice was dark and metallic. "What is all this, then?"

Lasaraleen spun around, smiling at him and waiting for him to make her swoon with odes of love, but he waited for a reply. "This, O delight of my heart, is Faraji of Erizad and Philip of Narnia. Faraji, Philip, this is my husband, Mirradin."

The horse gave only a dip of his head. Faraji's nod was kept brief to avoid any excess benevolence.

"I heard of your coming," said the man. "And what, may I ask, O hospitable wife, are they doing in your presence? Were my gifts to you, the animals that cost me a year of crescents, not to your liking?"

"Not at all," she said, forcing a giggle into her voice. "Of course, you know I am most fond of them, but Faraji and Philip are in need of help."

"You could just as well have sent them to me," he said.

 _I would not want any help from the likes of you,_ thought Faraji. Philip was putting on a light smile, but a tense mood had come over him. The horse seemed to be thinking the same thing.

"Mirradin, now is not the time," said Lasaraleen through her teeth. "I married you because I thought you were much more agreeable than that detestable Hadarash, and I should hope you don't disappoint me."

"Don't!—" The man's hand threatened to tighten around her wrist, but with a glance at Faraji and Philip, he lowered his hand into hers. "Forgive me. A jealous heart is quick to catch fire and slow to burn out. It is only that Hadarash is second in the line of succession, and that man was offering you a hundred horses—"

"Let us not dwell again on what has passed," said Lasaraleen. "We have our own troubles to deal with now, and this breakfast is the most daunting of them all."

He patted her hand with his. "Indeed. I will join you presently, darling, but first I must tend to something. Please escort our guests to the stables."

"Beg pardon, _mehan,"_ said Faraji, forcing as much respect into that last word as he could, "but the guards at the southern gates seemed to be far more cautious than usual. Is there anything of concern you might be able to tell us?"

The man seemed to tense at that. "No," he said, "but I will inquire, and I will notify you of anything."

Faraji nodded. _Somehow, I doubt that._

The man let go of Lasaraleen's hand and stormed toward the exit. He shoved the ivory curtains out of his way, and they fell back as if all too eager to close the way.

"Delightful fellow," said Philip in a dull voice. He spun around and said, "Spotted one, where are you going?"

Faraji gave him a glance over his shoulder. "I don't trust him." The cheetah wriggled through the gap in the curtains and slunk on his padded paws across the stone floor.

* * *

 **Faraji glanced** to and fro. The man had disappeared down one of the bends, but the odor of his cologne (which smelled like fragrant wood stained with sweat) wafted down the corridor. The aroma grew stronger as Faraji rounded the nearest left corner, and by then the man had flung open a door.

Faraji's slinking turned into a trot, his paws still padding as softly as a breath, and he swerved through the crack in the door before it thundered shut. Faraji wondered if the man would throw back his head over his shoulder and see the cat following him, but his pawfalls were too soft for that. Mirradin turned on his heel and, in one large stride, disappeared through an archway.

Faraji saw nothing of the room, for he had stopped short of the archway. On the opposite wall came the flickering light of a torch. He paused, and he heard Mirradin lower himself into a chair, its legs groaning under his muscular frame.

"Tell me what happened."

There was a pause, and the voice of a nervous young man filled the room and the corridor. "We found a courier in Teebeth who had fallen ill with the blood fever. He left the city to send for help, and we caught up with him and took him to the river. When we informed him of our plans—to see if the illness would spread into Erizad via the waterways—he gave his life without hesitation."

Faraji's ears stood upright, and his mouth started to lower. _I knew they were responsible for this. I should have a word or two with you, Narnian._

"Our plans were cut short after that," said the young man. "There was a Narnian in Rasul; he pulled the body out of the river."

"I know," said Mirradin. "The Narnian is here, and so is Faraji."

"Mirradin, what is happening? We are taking orders from nobody knows who, and those orders almost killed me. Four of us went to the border with Erizad to put the body in the river; two of my friends came down with the infection, and now they're dead. When Hadarash and I returned, I had to kill him just to silence him."

"You did the right thing. Hadarash was boasting of what had happened," said Mirradin. "If he had said anything more, he might have exposed what we are doing."

"We may already be exposed!" said the young man. "Now, Tashbaan is looking for me."

"Only on charges of murder, but we can fix that. All we have to do is deflect attention."

"How? By killing Faraji and the Narnian? All that will do is draw attention to us. If the demon of Narnia finds out we disposed of them, he might do to us what he did to Rabadash. And if the Tisroc ever found out, he would press us for any information we have and learn of this mission."

"I'm not afraid of the demon of Narnia, and I don't fear the Tisroc any more than the next man."

"And what of your wife? When she finds out Faraji and the Narnian are dead—"

"I know. She needs to be taken care of. But _your_ priority is Faraji and the Narnian. They've already disrupted our plans enough. First, Faraji killed our two spies in Teebeth, and now the Narnian knows the _balik_ are the source of the disease. Too many miracles are happening with them. Once we get rid of them, things can proceed as they did before."

The young man sighed. "All right," he said with a tone of reservation. "I know some people. They could make it look like an uprising. And what will we do after that?"

"Stay discreet, at least until we receive our orders from our contact in Palár."

Faraji's jaw fell. _By the Man's sword and shield . ._. _m_ _y people have enemies in their midst._

"All right, then," said the young man with a nervous sigh. "When will this happen?"

"At sunset—when Faraji and the Narnian arrive at the gates," said Mirradin. "As soon as the riot has started and I have received confirmation that Philip and Faraji are dead, I will deal with my wife. After that, you and I will go through the motions of investigating the crime, give our condolences to Erizad and Narnia, and then return to our mission: turning the streets of Erizad into rivers of blood."

Faraji was sitting against a wall and could of course see nothing inside the room, but the mood lightened, as if the young man were smiling. "Agreed," he said. "What will you have me do until sunset?"

"Stay here," said Mirradin. "Do not go looking for me. The Tisroc's guards are still investigating Hadarash's death; if they happen to find you here, simply say that you were working with me on another errand and that they would do well to inquire of me. Once the gates close for the night, then you will carry out the plan. For now," said the man as he rose from his chair, "I must go through the motions of this dreary breakfast."

With that, Mirradin emerged from the room, pushing the curtains out of his way, and he turned on his heel and dashed up the stairs. Faraji sat in the shadow as Mirradin breezed past him and opened the door to the upstairs. The cheetah ducked his head away as daylight poured into the hall, and the door swung inward with a mighty thud.

 _Damn it,_ thought Faraji. _One demon is conspiring to kill me and Philip, and the other might be conspiring to kill his wife._

He let out a frustrated huff. He swung his head to, and fro, and to again—then a thought leapt into his mind.

 _Mirradin is going to the breakfast._

Faraji bounded onto all fours and burst through the curtains. The young man sitting at the table lifted his head, and at once his face fell in confusion and fear. "Who are _you?"_

The cheetah crouched and gave a dark chuckle. "My name is Faraji. And this is for the people of Rasul."

He loosed a roar and leapt through the air with outstretched claws.

* * *

" **Whinny-inny** -hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA!" said Philip. His laugh boomed inside the stables. "Oh, I have most enjoyed hearing the old riddles, milady. I have been away from Narnia so long, I was beginning to think I had forgotten them all."

Lasaraleen giggled. "That is one thing Aravis and I had in common," she said. "There were always things out of the North that we liked—she, the clothes of the Narnian men, and I, the stories and riddles." She let out her last giggle, and for a moment she was silent. "Saying them again makes me feel as if she is still here."

"You could journey with us, just to give her your greetings."

She sighed again. "I have too much to do here." She seemed to catch herself mid-word, as if she had said more than she intended.

Philip started to reply, but a tawny blur caught his eye. Faraji had swerved around the corner and into the dusty shade, his chest bellowing and squeezing with every short breath. His paws were dry but stained pink; Philip knew it was blood.

Faraji stared at them with bulging eyes. "This journey is over. I have to go back to Erizad."

"What are you talking about?" said Philip. "We're four days from Archenland, and after that it's Narnia."

"This situation has taken a turn. Someone in Erizad is planning an even greater attack on my people, and I have to warn them." He turned to Lasaraleen. _"Meha,_ where is your husband?"

She paused. "I assumed he was at the breakfast. Why?"

Faraji drew closer, dropping his voice halfway to a whisper. "Your husband is part of this."

"What?" said Lasaraleen.

"How could you possibly know that?" said Philip.

"Why do you think, Narnian? I followed him to his subordinate. The two are taking orders from an anonymous source in Erizad. Her husband gave the order to plant the body in the river, and now he's conspiring to kill his wife."

Lasaraleen shook her head. "That…That can't be."

Faraji glowered at her. "Is his treachery any surprise to you, _meha?_ Do you have minimal capacity to show a modicum of horror, or are you in league with your husband?"

At that, Philip slammed down a hoof. "Shame on you, spotted one. How dare you speak that way to a lady above your station—a lady who happens to be my friend."

"Friend or not, she may be complicit! _Meha,_ did you write those letters?"

"My husband acted on his own," said Lasaraleen. "I don't know anything!"

Faraji growled at her and crouched low. His shoulder blades protruded beneath his pelt, and his eyes narrowed to slits. " _Meha,_ I beg you to understand the gravity of my situation. Three weeks ago, my master received a letter telling me to go North. Because of that letter, I was struck with the Red Death—the same outbreak your husband ordered—and now, also thanks to your husband, there was nearly an attempt on our lives. So understand that I will do whatever it takes to pull the information out of you if it lies within you, so WHO WROTE THE LETTERS?!"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

"FARAJI, STOP!"

Just then, as Philip's whinnying and Lasaraleen's scream echoed their last, a soft voice drifted around the corner.

"Leave her be, Haroshta."

All swung in the same direction. Philip's ears swiveled forward, Lasaraleen spun around with horror on her face, and Faraji was so heavily struck with a sudden burst of terrible feelings, he didn't know which one to feel.

Into a shaft of wan light shuffled a cheetah. A nasty, blood-crusted cut had dried above his eye—the one that was left in his skull. One of his paws had lost a toe, and gashes and cuts trailed along his muscled side. Behind him, halfway in shadow, stood two cheetahs. The older female just as old and as thin and gaunt as her husband, the other female as young as Faraji and slightly better-fed. Both had looks of horror on their faces.

"Haroshta?" said the younger female. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape. "He said you were dead!"

Lasaraleen's mouth had been cupped by her hand, but now she lowered her hand, showing all her shock and confusion. "You…you can talk…but how can that be? Are…are you Narnian, too?"

"Nay," he said. "We are all that remains of the cheetah aristocracy. Even though our reign over the beasts of Calormen was ended, we live."

Faraji stared in open-mouthed astonishment; not only did he know the noble cat who stood before him, but he kept drawing in breaths to keep himself from sobbing. "Who did this to you?"

The old cheetah shook his head. "Leave the Tarkheena be. She knew nothing of this; nor did her husband or any other man. It was I who sent you north. It was I who sent Philip to you. And it was I who wrote the letters, so that you would come and rescue us…my son."


	9. Prince Haroshta

**All fell** still in the dark and dusty stables as the old cheetah waited for a reply. All had a thousand words to say, but no one wanted to be the one who broke the silence—not when it seemed so unbecoming. Yes, the old cheetah's face was scarred and short of an eye, but no one in that room had seen a mortal face look so solemn and noble.

"Perhaps I should start at the beginning," said the old cat with a lift in his voice. "It seems a long story is to be told, and I think introductions are in order. This is my queen, Zareenah, and my daughter, Nazeen. And my name is Saheeb, son of Razeed, son of Arshad, son of Rasheth, the great cheetah who attended Ilsombreh Tisroc, the son of Ardeeb Tisroc who was descended in a right line from the god Tash."

At that, Philip's ears stood upright. "I say!" he neighed to Faraji. "That cheetah you pretended to be in Teebeth was your father?"

Faraji sighed with annoyance. "What of it?"

"I do not say that in judgment, spotted one. Rather, I am quite impressed! You sounded just like him."

The old cat chuckled and aimed his gaze up at Philip. "When Haroshta had come of age, I told him to use my name in case he ever needed it. Of course, I had never expected him to use it in the fullest sense, but use it he did."

"And quite well, Sir," said Philip. "No one in Teebeth suspected anything."

"What happened, Haroshta?" said Nazeen. "Why did you not come for us?"

"I couldn't," said Faraji. "When I was taken from Calormen, Reza told me nothing about what had happened to all of you. He made it clear that to betray my country would be to earn a capital punishment. As far as I was concerned, you and Mother and Father and Beresh were all dead, and that was all that mattered."

"Your mother and I had thought he was dead, too," said Saheeb to Nazeen. "Twelve years ago, Haroshta was old enough to assume the duties and privileges of a fully grown prince. What I hadn't told you is that one of his first duties was to guard our border against the invaders from Narnia and Archenland. He was supposed to be stationed in Tehishbaan when Erizad invaded the city and took back some of the people who had been enslaved. The reports came back that two cheetahs were among the dead, and that both of them were my sons."

Faraji's scowl deepened. "It served him right to die like that," he said. "Beresh hated me for being first in line, and I hated him for causing mischief and putting the blame on me. He said he was accompanying me, to see me off upon my arrival in Tehishbaan. Instead, that beast had already hired assassins to dispose of me the day I took my post. Those soldiers would have cut off my head if the Erizadi hadn't invaded the city when they did."

"And that, I suppose, was how you fell in with Reza," said Saheeb.

Faraji nodded at that. "What of you, Father? How did you come to be the pets of such a cruel man as Mirradin?"

"After you and your brother died—or so we had thought—we were forced to leave Zalindreh. Nardin Tarkaan died in his sleep, and his successor—his eldest and spoiled son who rules Zalindreh even now—told us we would be sold as slaves to the highest bidder. He saw no use for the cheetah aristocracy and thought that since we were Talking Beasts, we might pledge fealty to Narnia and the children who ruled in Cair Paravel. Of course, he would have none of that. But, instead of letting us escape, he kept us in chains until we went to the highest bidder.

"We were sold to a young husband and wife, and we stayed there for seven years. That family had no respect for who we were, and when we tried to speak sense into the conversation, he took us to the cellar and whipped us all. Over time, we learned to never speak again, and we stayed mute and dumb as we were sold from owner to owner. Only once did we ever break our silence: one year ago today, the day Mirradin and his wife-to-be made our owners a rather attractive offer. He is a Tarkaan only out of his parents' wedlock; he wanted to secure her hand by promising to buy a most expensive gift, one that would surely thrill her. She was so happy, she couldn't possibly refuse him."

Saheeb flicked his eye at Lasaraleen, waiting for her to speak. She made no reply.

"Before she and Mirradin took us to Tashbaan, I told Zareenah and Nazeen: No matter what, we could not say anything. No matter how gentle and kind to us she was, we could not break our silence in her presence. Though she proved herself to be kinder than any of our masters and mistresses that had gone before, we knew what her husband was like. He was the reason we kept our silence, even from her.

"Then, a year ago, I saw Haroshta with my own eyes. He was fighting in Calavar, slaying twenty Calormenes with tooth, claw, and to my amazement, even a dagger he threw out of his mouth. That was the day he became a warrior in the order of the Red Diamond, and it was well earned. In that day my heart was filled with the most potent potion of feelings I had ever known: horror, that my own son was killing his own countrymen; awe, that my son could vanquish so many men with his own strength; joy, that someday we might be a family again…and despair, that I had to keep my silence and act as though I had never seen him."

Faraji gave no reply except a slow blink. "And what of your wounds?"

"After Mirradin and the Tarkheena were wedded, he and I rode to Zalindreh on horseback. One of his enemies aimed an arrow at him, and it pierced me in the eye. As for the rest of the wounds, he thinks we have too little sense to be persuaded by kindness. He rules his house with the utmost fear that someone or something will go wrong."

"But why did you write the letters?" said Faraji. "Why involve the Narnian in all this?"

"Because I wrote five letters in my own name and sent every one of them to the Mareshah's house. No one answered. It was a small wonder; I know how the Erizadi indoctrinate new captives and recruits—by isolating them from any semblance of their former lives. Philip was a precaution: I saw him rescuing his fellow horses, and I knew that if anyone could be trusted to take you north, it was he."

Philip whickered, shaking his head as if to clear all his thoughts away. "By the Lion's mane," he said. "There is so much intrigue and sorrow that follows your family, spotted one. Lies, betrayal, murder, and now a conspiracy to unleash a disease into an entire country."

"For once, I agree with the Narnian," said Faraji. "You tricked us into this, and it nearly cost us our lives. I almost died from the Red Death, and he would have been tortured if I hadn't saved his life. You owe us an explanation: Is there _any_ medicine in Narnia—anything that could help Rafik?"

Saheeb paused. At that, Philip started to tense. All had stared at the cheetah king now, waiting for his answer.

"I am sorry, my son…"

At that, Faraji bowed his head and started to choke on a sob.

"...but your mission to Narnia will be for nothing. Someone greater than I has healed Rafik. It is Aslan—the Lion of Narnia."

Faraji's head darted up, and fury darkened his face. "That is absurd," he said. "Aslan is a man."

"Did we not teach you your history?" said Zareenah. "Aslan is a lion."

Faraji paused. "Not even a month has passed, and I find out I'm ignorant of the entire world. What else don't I know? Has Aslan taken over Erizad?"

Saheeb chuckled. "It is not that severe, but indeed it has taken us all by surprise. It seems your master and his men have had quite enough of all the fears they have been forced to live with. After you left, the Sarazen lifted the prohibition on capital punishment of children, and he ordered the execution of every child in the jail of Palár. Your master and his men resisted, and he and the Sarazen were killed. It was in the battle that Aslan intervened, and he not only brought your master back to life but healed your son of his fever."

A scowl of fear and anger fell upon his face. He had been sitting on his haunches, but even then his legs had started to tremble. "Right. Aslan is a lion, but what is a lion? And what does a lion want with _me?"_

Philip gave a soft neigh. "There is only one way to know, spotted one—and that is to go on to Narnia."

Faraji shuddered. "I thought as much," he said, "which is why I have to go back to Erizad. If I go any further north, I might encounter the greatest of fears. Surely he cannot stay in Erizad forever. If I leave now, I might be able to hide along the way and hope he passes me by."

Philip trotted in front of Faraji. "Spotted one, your family has waited twelve years for this day. You cannot just leave them."

"They have not been my family for twelve years. If you care so much about them, _you_ take them to Narnia."

"What claim have any of you on them?" said Lasaraleen. "They are my pets. You cannot just order them about any more than they can order themselves. As far as I'm concerned, they are strangers to you."

"She's right," said Faraji. "My family was dead to me when Reza took me to Calormen. As far as I'm concerned, they still are."

Nazeen gasped. "Haroshta!"

"You cannot just abandon your family now," said Saheeb. "We _are_ alive, and the responsibility to protect us has now fallen on you."

"No. _You_ forced it onto me by sending me to the North under false pretenses, and now that Erizad is in danger, I will not accept your responsibility at any price. I'm leaving—now. I bid you farewell and a safe journey."

"Harrumph-ph!" said Philip. "I am not letting you out of this stable until you promise you'll take them to Narnia."

"Well, then, we will be waiting a very long time, Narnian. I am Erizadi by law. Its people are my people. My master saved my life, and I forever in debt to him. Besides, if I don't repay that debt, Aslan will kill me."

"By the time you return to Palár, it might be too late. You don't know enough about the attack against your people. But there are three cheetahs whose lives you can save."

"Bah! What good will _that_ do me when I'm lying dead in Narnia, struck dead by the Lion you serve? If you want to keep being Aslan's precious steed, then do my family a favor and take them north yourself. Erizad needs me far more than do any of you. Now get out of my way."

"No."

"NARNIAN, GET OUT OF MY WAY! _NOW!"_

Philip stomped a hoof with a loud thud. "You are not leaving here until you help your family."

" _DAMN_ IT, YOU STUPID—"

Whatever else he wanted to say was cut short, for the wooden doors burst open with a mighty kick of a man's boot. Mirradin charged into the stables, flanked by three men, and as his face went wide-eyed with rage and a muscular hand reached out, he pinned Lasaraleen by the throat and slammed her against a stone pillar.

"You were supposed to be at the breakfast two hours ago. What are you _doing here?!"_

The man squeezed her neck so hard, it loosed the tears from her eyes. "Please…let me go…"

He swung the back of his hand across her face, turning her cheeks beet-red. "You have insulted me once, woman; don't insult me again by pleading for mercy. I know what you are doing. You are fraternizing with our enemies and now plotting to send our pets out of this country. Why?!"

"Oh, you know why," said Saheeb.

Mirradin swung to the cheetah. His face twisted in a mix of rage and shock.

"You have treated us like dogs, which is only slightly worse than the way you treat your wife. Now that our son has been returned to us, we are leaving this place. As the remnants of the cheetah aristocracy, we will not ask your permission to leave. A warrior in the order of the Red Diamond is in your midst, so I implore you to unhand your wife, turn your men away, and let us depart in peace. If you don't, my son will lay waste to you and every man in your unit."

Mirradin aimed his poisonous glare at Faraji. "So it _was_ you who killed Rashda in the study," he said. "You were very good. I heard no sound out of you. Well, then, as you no doubt heard every sound out of us and the young man, should I even bother to deny what I have done?"

At that, Lasaraleen's face twisted in a furious scowl. "You," she said. "You killed all those people in Rasul."

"I would do it again. Rabadash has brought this empire to a level of infamy that has never been seen before. Now, our infamous Tisroc has been negotiating peace treaties with the North, prostrating himself before them like a vassal. If we cannot use war and conquest, we will use surprise and terror. When the world hears that hundreds of thousands of Erizadi are drowning in their own blood, every nation will tremble at the sound of our names. Come with me, wife, who pledged to me her servility and love, and help me rule over the enemies of Calormen."

"No!"

The man glared at her with more venom in his eyes, then snapped two fingers. On cue, three of his men stood over the cheetah family, hovering their scimitars over the cats' necks.

"If you do not help me and fulfill your duties, I will start with our precious pets. You know what I have done to them; rest assured I can do far worse."

"Haroshta," whispered Nazeen, "…please."

Faraji felt his eyes filling up with tears and a sob bubbling up in his throat, but he closed his eyes and lowered his head.

"You see?" said Mirradin. "Every creature looks out for himself. Even a cheetah prince knows when to accept his lot in things. It is doubly unfortunate, as my wife is quite fond of you all, and she has refused to accept her lot in things. She will be dealt with soon enough." He turned to the soldier in the center of the row. "Tarmash? Start with the daughter."

What no one saw was that Faraji had kept an eye open, aiming it at Philip. The horse was like a great elephant in comparison to the cheetahs, but everyone seemed to have forgotten he was there. The horse had stood in the shadows, and Faraji had glanced at him, as if speaking his thoughts with his gaze. Philip seemed to have gotten the same idea.

Without warning the horse burst into a run.

Philip bowed his head as he charged, and the soldiers crashed into one another like a toppling trio of books. The cheetahs scattered and scrambled away, kicking hay and dust into the air, and they swerved into the stable and pulled the door shut as the soldiers scrambled to their feet. Faraji had leapt toward Mirradin and threw his claws across the man's throat, and Mirradin toppled backward and breathed his last.

No one seemed to remember much of anything after that, for it was all a horrible blur. Philip had waited for an opportunity to join in the fight, but none had come; indeed, he would later say that Faraji needed no other help. Every time the horse blinked, another man had fallen. Faraji dashed to and fro as a dozen soldiers poured into the room, and the cheetah leapt upon the first man and tore out his throat. As they landed, the cheetah bit a man's ankle, loosing a horrid howl of pain as the man crumpled backward into the knife of his comrade. Faraji ducked out of the path of the falling men and steadied a dagger with his jaws; the man fell upon it just as Faraji spun out of the way, and he set his eyes on a fat man who moved too swiftly for his girth, and he fell over as Faraji brought his claws across his neck. The cat leapt off the falling man and twisted his lithe body in midair, pouncing on a man before he could bring the dagger across Faraji's throat. The cheetah tumbled to his feet and leapt between two men and saw them run their swords into the other's chest, and both fell dead in unison.

Faraji rose up from the last body and spat out a globule of blood as he gathered his senses about him. Lasaraleen gasped for breath, and the cheetah king and queen and princess came trembling from the stall. Even Philip, who had beheld the power and glory of Aslan and had seen his fair share of battles, had never witnessed such a thing.

The doorway was filled with shadows again. Faraji spun around and saw Calormene soldiers standing in the entrance, but going no further. The turbaned captain stepped through the doorway, his boots crunching against the dirt. "Gods above and below," he said, his face blanching at the sight of Faraji's bloodied paws. "You did this?"

"Indeed," said Faraji. "The Tarkheena's life was in danger, and her husband was about to kill us all."

The captain turned to Lasaraleen. "Milady, do you vouch for him?"

She nodded. "I do."

"As do I," said Saheeb.

"As do I," said Zareenah.

"As do I," said Nazeen.

"Whinny-inny," said Philip. "As do I."

Lasaraleen composed herself and stepped forward. "As the wife of the late Mirradin Tarkaan, with the power vested in me by the gods of Calormen, by the irresistable and inexorable Tash, and by our glorious Tisroc (may he live forever), I hereby order you to grant the six of us safe passage out of this city. Let anyone who dares to harm us be warned: Any attempt by any man or beast to hurt us will be met with extraordinary and deadly force." She flicked her eyes toward Faraji, who affirmed it with a nod.

The captain shuddered and looked Faraji in the face. "That will be no trouble at all."

Philip snorted. "In all my days, I never imagined that one creature could commit such an act," he said. "Spotted one, now that your enemies are dead...I take back what I have said. I have no right to order you about, and they have no need, I'm sure. If you wish to go back to Erizad—"

"Not after this, not until I am certain that my family is safe. First, I need to write a letter to my master in Palár. He needs to know what has happened here and that I will not be returning to Erizad yet."

Saheeb padded up to him. "I have the supplies for that in these stables."

"Then let us take these supplies away from here," said Philip, "and write the letter in a much more pleasant setting."

Saheeb nodded and padded away, then returned a moment later with a box in his jaws. Lasaraleen knelt down and picked it up, and Saheeb thanked her with a light nod. With the Tarkheena leading the way, the cheetahs padded in unison out of the room, with Philip clopping close behind, as a line of soldiers streamed into the stables behind them.

Nazeen trotted up to Faraji. A light smile had risen up on her face, even with all the death that she had just seen. "Oh, dear brother," she said. "Is this truly what it took for you to help us?"

Faraji bowed his head a little. "I cry your pardon, Nazeen. I did not realize how much you had all meant to me, not until your lives were in danger. All that matters now is that you all are alive. After that..."

Nazeen's face fell. "Are you going back to Erizad after all that has happened?"

"I _have_ to," said Faraji. "Reza saved my life."

"He was the one who took you from us."

"And if he had not, our brother would have killed me."

"But will you stay with us, at least for a while?"

"Nazeen, I am forced to serve the family of the Mareshah of Palár. No matter how much I hate my servitude, I am bound by the law of Aslan and the law of the Sarazen. I cannot simply abandon my duties forever, not unless I want Aslan or the Mareshah to kill me for it."

Zareenah came up beside her and gave her a sad smile. "Haroshta is right," said the cheetah queen. "He has his own duties and decisions."

"But we could be a family again, Mother," said Nazeen. "We cannot simply let him go."

"We would be wrong not to," said Saheeb. "If he is able to stop whatever is happening in Erizad, he would be worse than a traitor to abandon his duties forever. Besides, he is not the same cheetah who was torn from us twelve years ago. The son we knew as Prince Haroshta is a shadow compared with who he is now."

"But Erizad is such a terrible place," said Nazeen. "Even if Aslan is there and setting things right, why would anyone want to go there? How can Haroshta think of returning, when he could be with the only family who truly loves him?"

Faraji let out a sad sigh. "Even so," he said. "I should wonder what is happening in Erizad."

Philip neighed. "If Aslan is in your country, I should think a many great things are happening." There was a pause. "At least, I hope so."


	10. The Beginning of Reza's Troubles

_**A/n:**_ _Of all the chapters in this story, this one has been the hardest to write so far. Even though I knew what would happen, I spent days and days agonizing over it. Between drafting scenes, editing others, erasing a few, and moving a few others to a future chapter, I've had to make some tough choices. Events in Erizad are about to go from bad to worse, and writing a good watershed chapter is no easy feat. Plus, I've never written scenes like some of these before, so that's a whole new learning curve I've had to overcome._

 _All that said, I give you the next chapter. As always, I hope you enjoy it._

 _By the way: Violent content, brief language, and a rather crass remark._

* * *

TEN DAYS AGO...

 **The Calormene** took his stand at the looking glass. A razor sat in the basin of hot water. To look like one of _them_ —a turbanless man with a naked face—was an insult. No Calormene of age would dare to let himself be seen like that. But he picked up the wet blade from the basin and lifted it to his face. He had his orders, and they would not be disobeyed.

The man drew the blade across his chin. With one scrape, and another, his goatee had fallen away, and another few scrapes left the skin bare and smooth. A dip into the water and out again, and the knife set to work on the mustache. When it was over, he laid the razor into the basin and wiped a towel across his face.

As he lifted his head again, a sad look came over him. A man in a black cloak stood in the doorway; over his face, a black cloth covered everything but his eyes.

"Be strong, Corrath," said the masked man. "It is by Tash that we go to war, and it is by Tash that we will prevail. If you must treat me as a stranger, even as an enemy, do not hesitate."

Corrath paused. He pulled his blue coat off the hook on the wall, and he pulled his arms through the sleeves. "Do not say such things, Rameesh," he said. "If you say them often enough, they may come true."

"So be it," said Rameesh. His voice was softened slightly by the mask, but his melodious voice carried through. "Even if one must kill the other, we will receive our reward. We will stand before Tash in his great and hallowed hall. And with Ilsombreh Tisroc, his son Ardeeb Tisroc, and all who have descended from the right line, we will lift a toast to Tash, the inimitable, the incomparable."

Corrath nodded. "Until the day."

A smile lifted the folds of Rameesh's mask. "Now be off with you."

Corrath sighed, then reached for his hat and laid it atop his head, and he marched down the hall. With that, Rameesh turned on his heel and marched to the back door, taking care to lift the latch with hardly a noise. He slid through the opening and nudged the door shut until it sat snugly in the jamb. A mournful sigh fell, muffled by the cloak over his face, but he gathered himself and fell into a lively stride down the alley.

The cold of the morning had fallen over Palár as blue dawn cast the buildings in silhouette. The men and beasts who had awoken and started about their business were few and far away. A cheetah guard and a soldier crossed the street ahead of him, and both carried on without paying him a glance. Another turn to the left, and Rameesh stood before a pair of mighty doors framed in a towering arch.

Rameesh nodded, and as the guards pulled the doors open, a wall of noise filled his ears. The hall was jammed with fifty rows of men covered in cloaks and holding torches in their hands, and all clamored for him to speak. The air was hot and thick and smelled like burning cloth. All eyes watched him as he marched down the aisle and took his stand on the step. Two tigers rose up from their haunches and flanked him, and a man handed him a pike-mounted torch. Rameesh brought the tip of the pike down with a loud bang; all fell silent like a court coming to order.

"My name is Hikmat al-Baráti," said Rameesh. "For seven years, I was in the service of our Mareshah. He was my master, my commander, and my friend. As of now, those days are ended. It matters not what uniform he wears or how many baubles you pin to his chest. He is not fit to be called our Mareshah!"

Shouts of affirmation echoed in the great hall. One man cried, "Speak the truth, brother!" and the room was filled with noise.

"Three weeks ago, the Red Death was unleashed in Rasul—not by any Calormene or by any plot, but by the Man Aslan. He did this to judge the guilty for their crimes against him. It was done so that we would be warned, that we would quicken ourselves to obey the Man with greater fervor. But our Mareshah has been deaf and blind to the Man's ways. Forty children were convicted of treason against the Man, and it was Reza's duty to put them to death. Instead, he and his men set them free. Then, after the so-called 'Lion' appeared, Reza began to say Aslan is a Lion, and he appealed to the Assembly to abolish the death penalty for treason. Now, the fury of Aslan is at the door. What happened in Rasul will happen to all of us unless we appease him now _._ As our Mareshah will not do his job, it is time that we do it for him. It is time to rise up against the believers of the Lion—the men and beasts who swear by this false Aslan. By the Man's Sword and Shield, I summon my fellow Erizadi to war!"

Cheers burst out of the crowd. One man lifted his torch high above his head and shouted, "In the name of Aslan!" and more cheers rang across the hall.

"Go forth!" said Rameesh. "Go forth into the streets of Palár and the palaces of Arkanaz. Go forth into the ruins of Barát and the shores of Ansar. Go forth into the Dunes of the West and the Five Towns of the South. Find the followers of the Lion. Destroy their homes and everything in them. Don't even put them before a judge and demand their execution—put them to death! Show these desecrators the might and wrath of Aslan!"

At once, the crowd gave a mighty shout. They pointed their torches skyward and chanted, "ASLAN! ASLAN! ASLAN!"

"GO FORTH, BROTHERS! GO FORTH, IN THE NAME OF ASLAN!"

* * *

PRESENT DAY...

 **A burst** of arrows streaked across the sunrise. Like a crashing wave, the black-masked men crumpled and fell, and Reza and the soldiers swarmed across the street, loosing volley after volley of arrows. Around them, men and women and beasts had scattered across the neighborhood, women holding crying children in their arms, and men shouting at one another to keep fighting the attackers. As a swarm of masked men poured in from all around, Reza and the army charged into the fray, fighting by hand and blade.

Reza ducked as the point of a dagger swung through the air, and he felt a pinch in his face and a wet warmth blossom in his cheek. A line of blood formed and dripped down his face, and he swerved and ducked around sword and fist as he kept the attacker in sight. He shoved two men aside with a grunt and passed between them, and he nocked his arrow. The attacker had just flung his head over his shoulder—his face was covered except for the eyes, which bulged with horror. He leapt to one side, but Reza caught it and fired the arrow, hurtling it into the man's ankle. The man collapsed in a heap as Reza stood over him. With a grunt, Reza knelt down and ripped the cloth off the attacker's face, and an agonized smile filled with gritted teeth was aimed up at him.

Reza nocked another arrow. "Who's your employer?"

The man scoffed. "Kiss the hand of the White Witch, you bastard. I'll tell you _nothing."_

Reza scowled, then laid a boot next to the arrow in the man's leg. The man howled with pain, his face turning red and glistening with sweat.

"WHO'S YOUR EMPLOYER?!"

A voice from afar cried, " _MEHAN,_ LOOK OUT!"

Reza swung around to see a brick rush to meet him. A loud crack burst in his ears. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an arrow go into the unmasked man, and stars danced around his eyes as everything plunged into black.

* * *

 **"...think he's** coming to," said the cheetah. " _Mehan,_ can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"

Reza let out a groan of pain, and the cheetah's angular face slipped into focus. A wave of pain crashed through Reza's head and left behind a dizzy wake. As his ears stopped ringing and he felt a measure of breath in his lungs, he let out a voiceless grunt. Five men, all in the gold-trimmed blue coats of Erizadi soldiers, joined Kalil in their vigil over the Mareshah.

Reza's words were voiceless and soft. "What...What happened?"

"Someone threw a brick at you," said the cheetah. "Even when knives and arrows are knocked out of their hands, these people know how to put up a fight."

"I meant..." Reza grunted in pain and gritted his teeth, then took in a trembly breath. "I...I meant...to the families."

The cheetah bowed his head. "Six homes were destroyed, all belonging to followers of the Lion."

Reza winced, and he waited for his ears to stop ringing again. "How many casualties?"

"Forty-one men in the dissent were killed. Your men are all alive and accounted for, but two were seriously injured. Among the followers of the Lion, there were nine fatalities, and most everyone else has some kind of injury."

With a pained grimace, Reza lifted himself upright, and he laid his forehead in his hand. "What cowards they are, to attack the poor and defenseless," he said softly. "I want _jamiras_ and soldiers to be installed in those neighborhoods day and night—just so these people have _some_ protection at all hours of the day."

"We can only hope the Assembly has enough sense to carry the motion. But with Moro in charge, we might not even be able to put it up for a vote."

Nothing more was said of the matter, and Reza rose to his feet. His legs quaked and threatened to give underneath him, and he paused to make sure they were steady before he looked the soldiers in their faces. "I will see to it that all of you get recognition—not only for saving my life, but for jobs well done today. Unfortunately, I will need you all to remain at your posts. If another riot breaks out, I want you to be ready."

No one seemed to mind. At Reza's dismissal, they filed toward the doors, and the Mareshah let out a shaky breath as another pang filled his head. He grunted and lowered himself back onto the sofa, waiting for the wave of pain to pass. When a warm dizziness was left in its wake, he turned to the cheetah. "Do we know what sort of people these are, to destroy their neighbors' homes?"

"We do," said Kalil. "They call themselves the Order of Aslan. Their mission is to promote the worship of the Man Aslan; to that end, they have vowed to punish everyone who calls him a Lion. Their leader is a man named Hikmat al-Baráti, who has—"

"Wait." Reza pushed a hand forward. "What did you say?"

Kalil paused. "Hikmat al-Baráti. He resigned his commission two weeks ago."

Reza's eyes drifted about the room. "Yes, and he told me he was leaving for Barát."

"Perhaps he never left. That, or someone else happens to share the name."

Just then, the doors swung open, and what Reza saw made all his pain fade away and his heart leap. Nazira and the boys burst through the doorway, and all his strength came back to him as he sprung to his feet again.

"Reza, what happened?"

"It is all right, darling," he said, putting on a smile. "We had trouble in the Bahára Quarter, and we took care of it."

A look of dread fell over her as she looked him in the face. "Those cuts...and those bruises—"

"All superficial," he said. "It looks worse than it is." There was a pause, and his eyes flicked to Rafik. At once, a look of worry fell over Reza's face; a dark bruise circled around the boy's eye. "What happened?"

At once, Rafik's teary eyes widened. He paused, his mouth hanging open. "Papa, shouldn't you rest?"

"Rafik...what happened at school?"

There was a pause, and Rafik fidgeted in place. He waited for Nazira or Navid to say something, but it was clear he had to speak for himself. As he collected his breath, he blinked and shed a pair of tears. "I was in a fight with Salim."

As Reza lowered himself onto the sofa again, he turned to Navid. "And you joined in the fight, didn't you?"

"He was saying things about Aslan—and he was making fun of Rafik!"

Reza stared for a moment, then glanced back to Rafik. "Salim called you a ghost, didn't he?"

Rafik nodded.

"And so you hit him, to prove you weren't a ghost."

Rafik nodded again, and he started to bite his lip. "Are...Are you going to hit me, Papa?"

Reza sighed. "Oh, my son...did I not tell you when Aslan came, that there would be a new order of things?"

The boy nodded yet again, but his eyes were still full of fear.

Reza paused, then laid his hands on their shoulders. "Look at me," he said. "This will never again be a house where my sons or any animals are hit. But do you know why it was wrong to hit Salim?"

"Because it's not Aslan's way." With each word, a sob started to bubble in his throat. "But Papa, he didn't believe me!"

Reza showed a sad smile. "I know," he said. "It hurts when someone you love is mocked and ignored. But I want you to remember what Aslan has done. He has been shouted at and disbelieved, and never once has he argued or fought. It is that kind of Lion strength we ought to have when these things happen—to overlook insults, to keep the peace, and to love others who hate us—and I know you have that in you. Both of you do. But you need to act on it, because it will always be Aslan's way."

There was another pause, as Rafik seemed to get an idea. "I want to apologize to Salim."

"So do I," said Navid.

Reza showed a full smile. "Good. And remember: If anyone gives you trouble, tell your teachers, or come to us. And if you must, walk away."

"Yes, Papa," said the boys.

A pause. "Now, then, why don't you both study with Kalil."

Nothing more was said of the matter. The boys turned to leave, and Kalil padded between them and led them around the corner to the study. Reza waited for the door to close, then stood up again and let out a sigh.

His tired eyes flicked to Nazira, who smiled and took him by the arm. "Last week, you wondered how you could ever be like Aslan," she said. "You sound more like him than you think."

Pain twisted his mouth into a frown. "What I had done before...to think that I once used a whip on my own children..." His face grimaced in the way that yours would if a sob were imminent, but he composed himself and blinked back his tears. "I want to do better," he said. "My family, my people...they deserve a better man than the one I was before."

Reza had drawn in a breath to say more, but his words were cut short by the front door groaning open. A soldier stepped through and lifted his hat from his head. His face was somber, his lips as flat as his mustache.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, _mehan,_ but Moro is here to see you."

At once, their faces fell, and the bored-looking cheetah padded into the room. Two soldiers stood guard on either side of Moro, barely able to hide their disdain for him. A long silence filled the room; Reza had wanted to say something of choice but thought better of it.

The cheetah blinked up at him with bored eyes. "For a man who died and came back to life, you don't look as youthful as I expected." Moro smirked and twitched his tail. "Perhaps you _are_ a ghost. Tell me: If someone threw a brick at you, would it bounce off you or pass through?"

Reza scoffed. "I invite you to find out."

"Well, I should hope I get the chance, seeing as how you tried to have me killed two weeks ago."

"You tried to execute children. I was acting within my rights."

"Oh, but trying to kill me was in such poor taste," said Moro. "I am our late Sarazen's _jamira._ I am not simply fired upon. Besides, it was within _my_ rights to inform on you. We would have executed all those children if you hadn't interfered."

"He had every right to interfere," said Nazira. "The Sarazen had no right to overturn the decree without a majority vote in the Assembly. So why would he overturn the decree, if you hadn't encouraged it?"

Moro turned his gaze away. "I don't discuss political matters with women," he said. "I have a schedule to keep, Reza, so let me get to the point: The Assembly has placed you on notice."

Reza's heart leapt into his throat. "What?"

"Why?" said Nazira.

Moro ignored her and turned to one of his guards. On cue, the man passed Reza a folded piece of paper. Reza peeled the seal away and unfolded the letter; at once, his face grew dark and solemn.

 _In the Name of the Man Aslan, and by the Man's Sword and Shield:_

 _This memorandum is to notify Mareshah Reza Munir that he has been put on notice by a majority vote of the Assembly. This motion has been made in regards to the recent violence in Palár and the accusations of blasphemy against the Man Aslan. In light of recent events, the Assembly is invoking the Code of Aslan, Chapter XI, Section 14: The Mareshah is forbidden to conduct any business outside Palár until further notice, and he and his men are to submit a copy of their reports to the Council. Violation of these terms is punishable by dishonorable discharge, two months in solitary confinement, and death, at the discretion of the Assembly.  
_

 _By the Man's Sword and Shield, and by the power and wrath and terror of the Man Aslan, etc., etc._

A list of signatures followed after the conclusion. Moro's name was at the top of the list.

Reza lifted his head and glared at the cheetah. "You have no grounds for this. You have not charged me with a crime."

"We don't need to," said Moro. "You are a Mareshah. It is your duty to maintain order. Part of maintaining order is executing capital criminals, and since you refuse to do that—"

"The Assembly agreed: It is no longer my duty to punish people without cause. We now know what the true Aslan is, and he is the same Aslan who arranged it so that traitors are to be redeemed, not carted off to be executed."

Moro smirked again. "We can discuss the finer points of your delusions, but not on my time. Tomorrow, you will report to the Assembly to be questioned."

"We don't have time! We're still trying to appoint a new Sarazen. My men and I are in the middle of an investigation."

"Tomorrow, Reza. It's not an option—it's an order. Meanwhile, the Assembly wants to discourage you from making any further claims of Aslan being a Lion. Even though these claims are not considered blasphemous—at least for now—they have still caused a significant amount of unrest, and we are concerned about any further unrest that will result if you persist in these absurdities."

"I have no intention of causing unrest. But when it comes to matters of the truth, I cannot and will not keep silent. Granted, the truth is unfamiliar to those who have heard lies, in the way that the sun is unthinkable to a man who has spent his entire life living in darkness. But I cannot deny the Lion any more than I can deny the rising of the sun. Until the day my heart fails me, I will make it my mission to let the Lion be known far and wide, from the Five Towns of the South, to the palaces of Palár and Arkanaz. And if I were to be discharged from my commission, I would sing his praises. If my tongue were to dry up, I would write. If my hands were to fall off, I would dance. If my legs were to break, I would crawl along the ground, ask a horse to kneel for me, pull myself into the saddle, travel to the farthest towns in Erizad, and present my broken body to every man and woman and child and beast in the town square, so that they could look me in the face and know the truth: that in the fullest sense of the words, I was dead, and now I am alive."

Moro seemed to grow even more bored at that. "Well, then, Reza, you would do well to consider yourself warned: Should the Councils reinstate the punishments for treason, you will receive the full penalty of your crime. If I were you, I would proceed carefully. Anything less might be your undoing."

With a flick of his tail, he swung around and padded away. On cue, his guards pulled open the double doors; once Moro had strode through, they filed out of the house.

Nazira turned to Reza. "This has to be Moro's doing."

"We can't rush to conclusions. No matter how insolent he is, he is only a cheetah who answers to men." A pause, and Reza let out a breath. "Aslan told me there would be a price to pay for my allegiance to him. This may be only the start of it."

Nazira nodded in acknowledgement. "What do we do next?"

"We go about our business, doing what Aslan has called us to do. I need to go to the station and write the reports about today's incidents. If the Assembly wants copies of our reports, I might as well start them now."

"Are you certain you should be on duty? You were attacked. You need to rest—"

"I'll sleep better tonight knowing these reports are done," said Reza. "Just make sure the boys finish their studies with Kalil, and don't tell them about what happened here. I don't want them to worry."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

* * *

 **Reza leaned** back and dropped the pen into the inkwell. With a grimace, he clenched his trembling hand into a fist. It was six hours since he and the men started copying their reports, and Reza's hand had started to cramp. The shaft of sunlight that streamed through the windows had stretched and drifted away; the end of the day was near, and there was still more to do than any of them wished.

He started to put the pen to the page again when he heard footsteps approach. He lifted his head and saw Yassir, a young man with a freshly shaven face and sharp eyes, standing over him. " _Mehan,_ I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm afraid we need to rewrite part of the report."

Reza cocked his head. "Which part?"

Yassir sighed. "I must be candid with you, _mehan:_ I am confused by it. The men we interrogated said Hikmat al-Baráti was their leader."

Reza's mouth opened a little. "Has that changed?"

Yassir reached into his coat and pulled out a letter. "This just arrived from the Mareshah of Barát," he said heavily. "Hikmat was killed."

At once, a flash of grief filled his face, but then a look of worry and confusion set in. "When did this happen?"

"Ten days ago. After he returned to Barát, he was en route to the palace when someone ambushed him in the street. Someone reported it to the Mareshah and is now in his protection, and the killer is still on the loose."

"And you're certain that this is the same Hikmat we all knew?"

Yassir nodded. "The Mareshah confirmed it."

Reza leaned back in the chair, and all the breath fell out of his lungs. His eyes glanced to and fro again, his mind racing with worry as fear grew on his face. "If Hikmat is dead...then who's leading the Order of Aslan?"

Just then, the door swung open, and a tall man in blue uniform lowered his hat. He was tall and sturdily built, with a friendly and intelligent face, but Reza looked at him with a wary gaze. The man seemed out of place, like a grand brass instrument out of tune in the orchestra.

"Good evening, _mehan,"_ he said. "You must be Mareshah Reza Munir. I hope that I haven't arrived too late to report for duty; I was meeting with the Assembly after hours to officiate my transfer."

"Understood. What is your name?"

The man reached into his coat and pulled out a folded paper. "Samir Burhan. I was transferred here from Barát."

Reza heard nothing else after that. Once again, his pulse started to deafen his ears, and his hands began to tense. The quiver of arrows was leaning against the leg of the table, and the bow sat beside.

Quick as a blink, he nocked an arrow and aimed the tip at the man's forehead. "Put your hands in the air."

The man's mouth fell as his hands rose above his head. "I beg your pardon?"

"I know Samir. I met him two days ago. Oh, he was very polite and courteous—enough to arrive two days early and introduce himself. I don't know what happened to the real Samir, nor who's leading the Order of Aslan, and I doubt I will get a reply from you. Now slowly...get on your knees."

But the man stood in place. All pretense of fear fell from his eyes. His face fell flat and somber, and a sigh of resignation fell from his lips.

He reached for a cordial in his pocket and lifted it to his face.

At once, Reza charged and reached for the glass vial, knocking it out of the man's mouth. Yassir kicked at the man and sent him toppling into the wall. The man pulled a dagger from his hilt and charged; Reza swerved and kicked the blade out of the man's hand; the man kicked back and sent Reza crashing against the table. Reza leapt to his feet and started to charge, but the man staggered back and held a hand to his chest.

The man's face had gone pale. His breaths turned into dry gasps, and he staggered back and stared at Reza. The man's triumphant eyes began to go blank and dead, and a smile started to flick up his face. With a grunt, then a gasp, the man crumpled to the floor, and his chest rose and fell for the last time.

All was still and quiet as Reza stared at the man's pale face and Yassir gathered his trembling breath. " _Mehan,"_ he panted, "what happened?"

Reza scowled at the man on the floor. "I don't know...but I think we have an even greater problem than the Order of Aslan."

Without warning, the front door swung open and a pair of soldiers filed into the room, and the cheetah Kalil wove between the men and stood in the middle of the room. "Who was _he?"_

"I don't know yet," said Reza, "but I know who he isn't."

He turned to Yassir. "I want all my men to fall in. If we have another impostor in our ranks, I want to know it now."

"Right away, _mehan."_

At once, the soldiers filed out of the room, following Yassir out the door, and Reza and Kalil stood numbly in the shaft of sunlight. As Kalil shook his head to clear the fog out of his head, Reza noticed the cheetah had a letter hanging by the ring in his necklace. " _Mehan,_ there was a hawk who came to the house."

Reza tilted his head. "A hawk?"

"He said he was a courier of Lasaraleen Tarkheena. He delivered a letter for our eyes only."

Reza paused, his face darkening in bafflement, then reached for the letter and pulled it from the cat's necklace. The seal was red clay, marked by a pawprint with a groove down the center pad. At once, Reza's heart leapt into his throat, and warmth began to blossom in his chest.

 _Faraji's alive._

He peeled off the seal and laid the parchment on the table, and Kalil hopped onto the table and crouched down over the letter. As their eyes scrolled across each line, their faces grew dark and heavy.

 _To His Excellency, Reza Munir, Mareshah of Palár:_

 _Much has happened in the last month, and much of it we both know. Suffice it to say that I am confused by much of it; at the risk of confusing either of us any further, allow me to get to the point._

 _During my stay in Tashbaan, I was fortunate enough to overhear a conversation about an impending attack on Erizad, but I am unfortunate enough to be the one to deliver bad news. R_ _ogue Calormenes are planning another outbreak of the Red Death, and this time, it will be in all our cities. What happened in Rasul was only the first wave of illness, an experiment to see how well the disease is transmitted through our waterways. The men I overheard belonged to an anonymous group operating within our borders, acting with such secrecy that not even the Tisroc nor any Tarkaan is to know of the conspiracy. As of this letter, Mirradin, Rashda, Hadarash, and a dozen of their co-conspirators are dead, but I'm certain their employers are not._

 _Furthermore, the Narnian who is traveling with me has discovered two things. First: Outbreaks of the Red Death are preceded by a deathly smell in the water and air—a stench that seems to be detectable only to Beasts. Any animal who smells it ought to be taken seriously, as it might mean that the illness has already arrived. Second: We were all taught that the Red Death is Aslan's way of executing traitors of the highest order, but events in Calormen are compelling me to consider a more natural explanation. I have reason to believe the disease is spread not by the wrath of Aslan, but by the_ balik. _During our time in Zalindreh, the Narnian learned that four hundred people all ate the_ balik _and, within a day, started bleeding and spreading the disease. If his theory is correct, we may finally know how to prevent the illness from ravaging us again—provided, of course, that the Assembly will come to its senses and allow you to investigate._

 _As events in the North are more complicated than I am at liberty to explain, I cannot close this letter with a promise that I will return. All I ask is that you not try to find us, for your sake as well as ours. If Aslan wills it, I will return to Erizad someday and give you a full account of my journey.  
_

 _In the name of Aslan, whatever he may be,  
_ _Faraji_

Reza read the letter once over, and he fought back his trembling breath. He glanced up at the dead body on the floor and said, "This man was a Calormene—I'm certain of it."

"Agreed," said Kalil. "Although I am rather surprised that Calormenes are resorting to subterfuge and suicide. _Mehan,_ we need to convene the Assembly for an emergency meeting."

"And tell them what? With Moro wielding his power, they won't hear anything I have to say—not without proof." Reza folded the letter back together and pinned it to the ring in the cat's necklace. "Go to the stables and bring my horse here now. I need to speak with a doctor in Rasul; he's a friend of mine."

" _M_ _ehan,_ as long as you're on notice, you can't leave the city without approval from the Assembly. Let me go to Rasul. I can escort him."

"You don't know Ali," he said. "He's stubborn and irritable, and more importantly, he's mourning the loss of his son. He won't be persuaded unless someone knows how to get through to him."

"What good will that do if Moro places you under arrest when you arrive? You have to bring this before the Assembly first."

"If there are Calormenes in our midst, they may be manipulating the Assembly against us. I'll deal with the consequences, Kalil—just bring me my horse. After that, take the letter to Andur, and guard it with your life. If it falls into the wrong hands, there might be a panic."

Kalil nodded. "Yes, _mehan."_

The cheetah leapt off the table and burst through the doorway, and he disappeared around the corner. As the door swung shut, Reza let out a heavy sigh, and he leaned his head against his folding hands. Pangs of pain and weariness crashed over him, and the bruises from the attack started to hurt anew. But it was the words that drove him to bow his head—words that gave him a measure of hope.

 _O Aslan,_ he said. _Were there ever a time when I needed your Lion strength, it is now._


	11. A Sarazen and Sudden Vengeance

**_A/n:_** _This story started off as a simple tale about the dangers of needless fear. Now, it has grown into something bigger, richer, and more wonderfully complex than I ever imagined. Moreover, I recently got some feedback (not in the comments) that suggested I write an index of my original major characters, places and things in this story. Hence the extra-long author's note._

PLACES:

 **Erizad:** a country founded by Calormene refugees and their Talking Beasts around the Narnian year 500. The country lies along Calormen's southern border.

 **Palár:** Erizad's capital and largest city.

 **Rasul:** A small town that was recently struck by the Red Death.

TITLES:

 **Mareshah:** the top law enforcement officer in an Erizadi city.

 **Jamira:** an animal servant, usually of a Mareshah or the Sarazen.

 **Sarazen:** the supreme political and military leader of Erizad.

 **Marehafa:** the chief lawmaker of Erizad. Subordinate lawmakers in the Erizadi assembly are called Hafas.

 **Mehan:** a title spoken to a man of great respect. The female equivalent is _meha._

CHARACTERS:

 **Faraji:** the _jamira_ cheetah of Reza Munir, and a recipient of the Red Diamond for excellence in battle. He was recently sent to Narnia on a mission of mercy.

 **Reza Munir:** the Mareshah of Palár, and a highly decorated warrior. His wife is Nazira, and his two boys are Navid and Rafik (the latter of whom was sick with a deadly illness at the start of the story).

 **Tarin Sharaz:** the former Mareshah of Rasul. During the recent Red Death outbreak, he helped the Narnian horse Philip pull a body out of the river. He was exposed to the illness and died some days later. His father is Ali Sharaz, the town's doctor and somewhat of an expert on the Red Death.

 **Mustafa Bakhiri:** the former Sarazen of Erizad. He attempted to unlawfully execute forty children on misdemeanor offenses; in response, one of Reza's men assassinated him.

 **Aziz Ansari:** a hot-headed young soldier in Reza's army, one of many who resisted the Sarazen's efforts to execute children. He assassinated the Sarazen and was killed by Moro shortly after.

 **Abdul Jafari:** a level-headed and reasonable soldier. He attempts to rescue children from their execution but is caught and arrested by Moro. His whereabouts are unknown.

 **Moro:** an arrogant, condescending, conniving, and constantly bored-looking cheetah. He was a soldier in the Sarazen's army until he was unhappily transferred to Reza's house to take Faraji's place. Instead of performing his duties, Moro ended up spying on Reza and, against Reza's wishes, tried to have forty children executed. (This author affectionately nicknames him "everyone's favorite cheetah," though nothing could be further from the truth.)

 **Kalil:** Reza's current _jamira,_ a loyal cheetah and a follower of the true Aslan.

 **Saheeb:** Faraji's father, and the former cheetah king of the Talking Beasts of Calormen. He is also the author of an infamous letter to Reza Munir.

 **Salman Tarik:** the Marehafa of Erizad.

* * *

 **The white-robed man** leaned back in his chair. His eyes widened with fear, and the furrows along his naked face deepened. He held Faraji's letter over the table, not knowing whether to read it or lay it aside. His eyes glanced across the room, as though he were looking for something to say.

If you had ever met the Marehafa, you would know that silencing him was no small feat. Salman Tarik was the supreme legislator of Erizad; his life revolved around the writing and speaking of choice words. In all that time, he had never been at a loss for the right ones, but as he read Faraji's letter for the third time, every word was stolen out of his head.

The cheetah Kalil continued to stand on all four paws. For a long, thick silence, the cat looked him in the face, waiting for him to reply. A long moment passed before the man laid the letter on the table; by the sharpness returning to his eyes, he seemed to gather his words again.

The man leaned forward in the chair, his white robes rustling. "Kalil, I have no intention of ignoring this letter, but I cannot act on it, either. Before you came here, Reza received a letter telling Faraji to go to Narnia, and that letter was revealed to be a fraud. Someone deceived Reza once—someone might be deceiving him again."

"Agreed, _mehan,_ but I see no harm in allowing the Mareshah to continue his investigation."

"As a soldier who trusts his commander, you would say that. But from my point of view, Reza should not even be investigating. He was put on notice, and by leaving Palár without permission from the Assembly, he has broken the law."

"I understand, _mehan,_ but he would never have broken the law if Moro hadn't put him on notice. For reasons beyond either of us, Moro has done everything in his power to stop Reza from doing his job. And surely you feel that Moro acted improperly—"

"Do not presume to tell me what I feel, Kalil. My allegiance is to the law, not to my feelings."

Kalil said nothing, but his gaze did not falter.

"Even so, you are right. What Moro did was spiteful, as was everything else he has done—spying on Reza, disobeying his orders, and conspiring to have forty children unlawfully executed. But this time, Moro acted within the parameters of the law. He had every right to put Reza on notice, and a majority of the Assembly agreed."

"What will you do? Will you arrest him and disrupt his investigation?"

"I would, if it were anyone else," said Salman. "But Reza is the finest Mareshah I have seen in my lifetime, and Faraji is one of our finest _jamiras_. We cannot afford to lose Reza at a time like this. We will settle things when he returns—but I cannot promise him a reprieve."

Kalil bowed his head in resignation. "Fair enough, _mehan_."

* * *

 **A crescent moon** frowned over their heads as Reza and his horse rode into Rasul. The town was dimly lit by scattered lanterns and what little light the moon beamed through the thin clouds. Walking through Rasul felt like walking through a cemetery. Ninety people and animals died from the Red Death less than a month ago; their absence was thick enough to be felt, and the blackness of night and shadow seemed heavier than it would be in any other town.

The horse nickered a little, and Reza felt it in his own limbs. "Do you smell anything, Emir?"

The horse shook his mane. "Nay, _mehan._ I am only grieved by what has happened here. Six of my brethren died in the stables; I can only think of them crying out in pain."

As Emir plodded up to the house and came to a stop, Reza swung himself out of the saddle. He knew he had not been too late. A single candle sat in the windowsill, lighting the walls inside the mudbrick house. "Forgive me, old friend, but I cannot take you in with me. I doubt you would fit under the ceiling."

"I should think not," said Emir in a low voice. "I will wait here. In case there is another attempt on your life, I want to be ready to leave."

Reza thanked him with a nod. With a nervous sigh, he strode up to the door, and he pulled down the metal knocker with three clangs.

The voice from inside was muffled and weak, as if from crying. "I'm not taking any patients this evening."

"It's all right, _mehan_. I'm not a patient."

A pause, then the sound of footfalls muffled by the walls. The footfalls drew closer, the metal latch clattered, and the door groaned open, revealing a weary bearded man. His face was furrowed and shadowed by the candlelight, and his dark eyes stared coldly at Reza.

"So it _is_ true," he said. "The Mareshah of Palár was killed and brought back to life."

"So everyone has told me—though I can scarcely believe it myself. But that is not why I am here. Dr. Sharaz, I need your help."

"Whatever you need, you can ask the Lion who raised you back to life. After all, it was _your_ son whom he brought back from the dead. Good evening."

Reza's face fell. _"Mehan,_ wait—"

But Ali gave no reply. The door slammed shut, and a moment later, the candle in the window went out.

Reza balled his hand into a fist and knocked on the door. " _Mehan,_ our country may be in danger. Thousands of lives might be at risk. All I ask is that you tell me: Do the _balik_ carry the Red Death?"

Once again, there was quiet, then the scraping of a freshly struck match as light filled the window once more. The door groaned open, and Ali's face started to soften. "How do you know this?"

"Faraji wrote to me. Is there any truth to what he said?"

Ali let out a sigh. His shoulders fell, as though a great weight seemed to fall from them. "My friend, you must understand that I couldn't tell anyone. The Sarazen would have arrested me and put me behind the jail to be executed. But after five years, I kept discovering the same things: Every outbreak had started with the migration of the _balik_ into our waters, or with a water supply that smelled of death. I leaked the information wherever I could, but I could not disclose my identity."

 _"Mehan,_ I understand your situation. But the punishments for blasphemy have been abolished. You can stand before the Assembly and tell them what you know."

"But I cannot stand before them unless—"

"Unless I make you a Mareshah. I know."

Ali was still for a moment. "Reza, I am an old man. I would be an old man in a Council of warriors."

"You would be the Mareshah of Rasul. Everyone would listen to you. The Assembly _needs_ to listen to you. It's not just about the Red Death—it's about the future of this country. We are about to vote for a new Sarazen, and every man worthy of the title has been rejected, often by a single vote. If Moro nominates a man who follows in his pawprints, there will be executions of children for misdemeanor offenses, there will be executions of anyone who believes in the true Aslan, and any investigation into the Red Death will be thwarted."

"I am well aware of the situation. But if you think I am able to effect any change for the better, you are mistaken. No one would heed me; no one would have any reason to. I was no great warrior in my youth. I am an old doctor in the smallest town of Erizad."

" _Mehan,_ you know the Red Death—you know it better than anyone. You can testify before the Assembly. We may have a way to prevent the Red Death from killing any more of us, but the Assembly will never know of it unless you tell them. You have done the research; you have the experience. With all due respect, if you have a better reason than your excuses, I want to know it now."

Reza waited for Ali to chastise him for being so improper. Speaking so forcefully to an elder was a gross misdemeanor under the old laws. Instead, Ali's face softened, and tears started to fill his eyes.

"I do not deserve to be called Mareshah," he said weakly. "Tarin made the choice that I should have made. _He_ took the Narnian into Calormen. He pulled the body out of the river. Because of what he did, he was exposed to the Red Death. He was not supposed to die while he was still in the prime of his youth. I let him take the risk that I should have taken; for that, I can never forgive myself."

"My friend, you did nothing wrong. You had to stay in Rasul; no one knows more about the Red Death than you. It was right for Tarin to go on that mission—he was the Mareshah, not you. But if you insist on calling that a mistake, then take it from a man who has made even greater mistakes than yours. I was cruel to Faraji. I was harsh to my wife. I have used a whip on my children. I executed my own people for believing in a Lion—the same Lion who turned out to be the real Aslan. And yet, he has given me another chance, and you can give yourself another chance. We may not be able to change the past, but we can do something about the future."

A pause, and Ali showed half a smile. "You are nothing if not persistent. One wonders why you haven't been made a legislator in the Assembly." With a sigh, he said, "Very well. I will testify to what the Narnian has discovered, and I will present my findings before the Assembly—but on one condition."

"Name it."

"When we arrive in Palár, and I am sworn in as Mareshah, you will allow me to present you as a candidate for the next Sarazen."

This time, it was Reza's turn to look aghast. "My friend—"

Ali lifted his hand. "If I am without excuse, Reza, so are you."

"Being a Mareshah is one thing. I have no desire to rule Erizad."

"But you have a desire to protect your people and to seek the truth. That is more than can be said for anyone else. Reza, I have been reading the reports out of Palár. I know the kind of men that have been considered. Even the best of them have only half your experience or courage, and few have any interest in seeking the truth. Reza, it is not arrogant of you to say what we both know is true: Your time has come."

Reza stared blankly into the starry sky. For a long while, nothing was said. He muttered something under his breath, a prayer that Aslan would give him peace. At once, before the last words left his lips, a wave of Lion strength crashed over him, and in its wake was a measure of peace.

"All right, _mehan,"_ he said. "But only if I can swear you in as the Mareshah of Rasul." Reza held out his hand, and Ali clasped it with a firm shake.

"Agreed."

* * *

 **The newborn sun** rose above the limb of the earth as Reza and Ali walked the pillared corridors of Andur. Ali walked stiffly in his new blue uniform—the uniform of a Mareshah. It was a perfect fit, but the man inside it felt unworthy to wear it. And yet, as they drew closer to the yawning two-story doorway to the famed Aslan Hall, Ali seemed to relax a little.

Just then, Kalil trotted up to them and bade them a good morning, but not without mentioning how tired they looked.

"Sleep was not a luxury we could afford," said Reza. "We had to leave just as quickly as I arrived. With the Order of Aslan about, we expected to find trouble along the way."

"Did you?"

Reza sighed. "More than we expected. From what I heard, you had trouble, as well."

Kalil nodded. "The Order of Aslan attacked a row of houses along the thoroughfare. There were two fatalities among the followers of the Lion, but all thirteen rioters were killed."

Ali sighed. "Is this because Reza felt he had to leave, Kalil? Did this happen because he was away from his post?"

The cheetah paused. "None of us can be certain of that."

Nothing more was said of the matter. Reza, Ali, and Kalil streamed into the great hall with the rest of the dignitaries. All along Aslan Hall sat three rings of tables, terraced like the rows in a stadium. Along the outermost and highest ring sat the Hafas, the legislators of Erizad (most of them men, but with a few beasts among them); along the middle ring sat the Mareshahs, the highest law enforcement officers in their cities of birth (and no beasts among them, per the law); and along the lowest and smallest ring sat the _jamiras—_ the cheetahs and tigers and panthers that served with their Mareshahs. All the men and beasts raised their right hands and paws, and Salman took his stand behind his table.

"As the leaders of Erizad," said Salman, "we will execute justice and establish law."

"By the Man's sword and shield," said the Councils. (Reza, Ali and Kalil said with voices clear and strong, "By the Lion's mane.")

"As the leaders of Erizad, we will resolve to be fair in our rulings and solemn in our proceedings."

"By the Man's sword and shield."

"And as the leaders of Erizad, we will uphold the laws that were given to us by the Man Aslan. We will speak the truth under penalty of perjury."

"By the Man's sword and shield."

Salman nodded. "Be seated."

As men and beasts lowered themselves behind their tables, Salman let out a breath and panned the room. "The purpose of this Assembly is to appoint a new Sarazen—an arduous task that has been made more difficult by recent events. Two weeks ago, a great cat—this so-called Lion—came to Erizad and called himself the true Aslan. In response, the Order of Aslan was born, and they have attacked the followers of this Lion. But what you don't know is that we may now be facing an emergency—one that requires us to appoint our next Sarazen with even greater diligence and care."

Salman paused, and he interlaced his fingers. "Recently, Faraji received word of a conspiracy against Erizad—a plot to spread the Red Death into every city. If Faraji is right, this conspiracy is being planned by Calormenes operating within our borders and without the knowledge or consent of their leaders. Moreover, the Narnian horse that stopped the outbreak in Rasul has made an extraordinary claim: Instead of it being the curse of Aslan, as we had all been taught, the Red Death may be a disease that is carried and spread by the _balik_."

More murmurs swept through the crowd. Some men and beasts stared in disbelief. Others nodded, as though the idea made great sense. Moro's mouth was hanging open; Reza wondered if the cat was incredulous or trying to hold back a laugh.

Salman waited for the crowd to settle. "Whomever we appoint to be our Sarazen will have a great deal of trouble on his hands. With all that said, it is time for us to inquire of our candidates—to choose the best man for the position. Hussein Bakhiri is the only living progeny of our late Sarazen. Dr. Ibrahim Massoud is distinguished professor of Aslan studies at the University of Palár. But before we inquire of them, it seems we will consider a third man. I will ask Dr. Ali Sharaz—our newly appointed Mareshah of Rasul—to present this candidate before the Assembly."

Ali nodded and rose, and on cue, all eyes turned toward him. The Assembly's eyes were dark and weary; even the cheetahs and tigers and panthers seemed unable to hide their exhaustion. Two weeks, and scores of maladroit men had passed through, and none of them seemed to be any better than the previous man.

"Gentlemen of Erizad, and Talking Beasts of the Far South: I stand before you as a man who has spent his life seeking the truth. Difficult claims have come before us, and few men are willing to investigate them, to see if they have any merit. The sorts of claims we have just heard demand an investigation, not leadership that thoughtlessly blames Aslan on every disaster. We need leadership that faces a problem with composure and equanimity. We need a leader with the intelligence, strength, and courage to seek the truth. The man I present to you has all those qualities and more—and I don't need to remind you of his credentials and his many accolades in the service to his country. I appoint Reza Munir, the Mareshah of Palár, as a candidate for Sarazen."

The weary looks on half the faces of the Assembly grew lighter and stronger, and by the time Ali had taken his seat, the mood of half the room had changed. All eyes were on Reza now, and half were shining with looks of approval.

Salman kept his composure and rose from his seat. "The motion is to allow the Mareshah to stand before the Assembly and be questioned for the title of Sarazen. I will ask all in favor to raise their hands."

At once, paws and hands rose up along all three rings. To the surprise of none, Moro sat on his haunches and glared at Reza.

Salman turned to the cheetah. "Will you agree, Moro, that we have a majority in favor?"

Moro paused, his face warping into a grimace. "Agreed," he droned. "The vote is twenty-nine in favor and twenty-three against."

Salman brought down his gavel. "The motion is carried. Reza, you will stand before the Councils to make your case. However, in the interest of fairness, we will inquire of our other candidates first."

Reza nodded. "Understood."

"Very well. Then I will ask the Sarazen's grandson, Hussein Bakhiri, to take his stand—"

"I protest that!"

At once, all eyes turned to the far end of the room, to the man who has burst out with no warning. Hussein sprang to his feet, his coat rustling and whipping. The man wore the gold-trimmed blue uniform of an Erizadi soldier, but no one looked at the homely-faced young man with any respect.

"I should not need to take my stand. I demand that you dispense of these proceedings and appoint me now!"

Salman swung the gavel again. "That was out of order," he said. "Now take your stand and let us proceed."

"I will not take my stand! Need I remind you of Chapter XII, Section 1 of the Code of Aslan? 'Whenever the reigning Sarazen dies or is otherwise relieved of his command, his chosen successor shall ascend the throne.' I am that successor. It was written in my grandfather's will!"

Moro chuckled. "If you blush any harder, you might burst a blood vessel. And even if there weren't any better men than you in line, we can't appoint you to be Sarazen yet. There's been a complication."

Hussein's face was wide open at that. "What complication?"

 _"You._ You care nothing about the law unless it does something for you. You have no experience in battle and even less knowledge of Aslan. You have two women living in your house, and neither of them is your wife. Out of all the men who've been considered—all _forty-six_ incompetents we've questioned in the last two weeks—we could hardly do worse than you."

Hussein's anger flashed across his face. "Do you see how he talks to me?!"

"I do," said Salman, "but Moro is right. Your competency has been called into question, and justifiably so."

"I am just as competent as any man, if not more. I have been chosen by the Man Aslan to lead this country; there is no greater qualification than that. If you do not put a stop to these proceedings, then by the Man's sword and shield, I will _personally_ put an end to them."

Moro let out a sigh. "And this, gentlemen, is why we have Section 2."

Hussein glowered at him. "Section 2?"

"Yes, it's right after Section 1."

"I know where it is, you little beast," said Hussein. "And if you knew the history of that section, you would know it doesn't apply to me. The Sarazen of that day was killed before he wrote his will; Section 2 was written to stop his sons from killing each other."

Salman lifted a hand. "The wording is clear, Hussein: Section 2 is not limited to the Sarazen's immediate family."

"Indeed," said Moro, "and we have every right to consider superior candidates—especially when there is such a desperate need for them."

Hussein crumpled his hands into fists. "This is an outrage!"

Salman cracked his gavel again. "With all due respect, Hussein, you are not helping matters any. We are abiding by the terms of the law, and we are responding to the extraordinary nature of recent events. We will seek out the man whom Aslan has chosen to lead—and perhaps you _are_ that man. But you must go through the same process as everyone else—which means I will ask you to take your stand and present your case before the Assembly."

Hussein's glare was so toxic, it could make your blood turn to poison, but he gathered himself and forced a pleasant smile onto his face (which, to everyone's astonishment, made him look even more angry).

"All right, then? You want me to explain myself?" he said softly. "Choosing me is a matter of sense. I am of royal blood. I am the only descendant of my grandfather. But what of our other candidates? Consider Reza, who clings to the blasphemy that Aslan is a giant cat _._ The Mareshah should have been executed for this. Now consider Dr. Massoud, a professor who knows nothing about military matters. If Calormenes were to attack, the first thing he would consult is his books. My friends, it is only right that you choose me. It is only proper. It is the way of the Man Aslan. And if you disregard his way, he will doom this country to the Red Death, for rejecting me as your sovereign. Consider that, and heed it, as it could mean our lives. Thank you."

"And thank _you,"_ said Moro with a roll of his eyes. " _Mehan,_ Reza thinks the Red Death is preventable. Suppose, for the sake of discussion, that we accept his absurd idea. If you were to be appointed Sarazen, would you stop the Red Death from spreading?"

A pause. Hussein's eyes grew wide at that. His lips rose and fell, as if trying to get back the words that were stolen from his mouth. "I-I beg your pardon?"

"What, am I speaking another language?" said the cheetah. "If you were Sarazen, would you stop the Red Death from spreading?"

Hussein's face went red. "Well, yes—er, no. I mean—i-if I felt that in the moment it were...w-what difference would it make what _I_ would do? I wouldn't know unless I were appointed Sarazen and the burden fell on me!"

"Spoken like someone with no experience."

"Why should _I_ have to give an answer when the whole Assembly is interrogating me? I would know what to do when I am faced with it. Besides, does a man need to know _everything?_ I would give orders, and my Mareshahs would take them."

"I rest my case. Even a small child would rule this country better than you. You have no understanding, you have no credentials, and you have no right to lead Erizad."

Hussein's eyes flashed with anger. "I am the chosen of the Man Aslan. It is my right to be Sarazen."

"I think we have heard enough," said Moro through a yawn.

"Sustained," said Salman. "Unless there are no further questions, Hussein, you may be seated."

Hussein glared at him but said no more.

As he strode out of the center of the room, a man with flowing white robes entered the rings of tables. The white cloth that crowned his head like a veil signified that he was a learnèd man, as if his arrogant gaze did not persuade everyone else already. "As you all know," said the man, affectionately laying a hand on his chest, "I am Dr. Ibrahim Massoud—a most distinguished professor of Aslan studies at the University of Palár."

At that, Moro let out a bored sigh and started to lick his paw. The doctor glowered at the cheetah, as if the cat were a distracted student, but he forced a smile back onto his face.

"When I was but a small child, my parents prophesied that I was born for divine service. Why, even before I could talk, I had the giftings of a prophet. I could read the stars and know what Aslan was telling us. I could listen to animals and know their thoughts better than they could understand their own. I was blessed as a newborn with the gift of knowledge—knowledge of the great Man Aslan, who pours out terrible wrath upon the insolent and rebellious of his world—and my prophecies came true, even as I was learning my letters and numbers. Upon my coming of age, the Man Aslan spoke to me with his own voice: 'Ibrahim, you are to be a great scholar—the greatest of your time.' And, quite fittingly, so I was. My dissertation, 'On the wrath of Aslan as expressed in nature,' was defended with success. Not only did it earn me the title of assistant professor, but it also earned me the Silver Shield for excellence in research. As a married man and, soon enough, a father of four grown children, I became renowned across the Southern Wastes. My interpretations of dreams and visions of our great Man Aslan have made me renowned near and far. Men and women, children and animals, Calormenes and Erizadi far and wide have sought my counsel, because I am a man of great wisdom and intellect, of great piety and understanding. But _why_ , you ask? Why should a lowly and humble professor such as I be lifted to the rank of Sarazen—?"

"Thank you very much, Professor," droned Moro.

The man forced a smile onto his face. "Excuse me, but I am not through."

"You are _quite_ through. There is nothing more we need to know. You have no degree in law, you have never led an army, and you are good for nothing except blustering at length."

The man turned red in the face. "I will not be spoken to that way, and certainly not by the likes of a beast."

"Objection sustained," said Salman. "Moro, you will avoid your insolent remarks, knowing that another one of them will find you in contempt."

The cheetah glared at him, then turned to the professor. "I understand that Reza was one of your students. He thinks the Red Death is not the judgment of Aslan, but an illness spread by fish. What do you say to that?"

Massoud gave a condescending laugh. "Reza is terrified of the Man's wrath. He would do anything to coax himself that Aslan is a Lion."

"And Reza surely thinks that, by prohibiting the sale of the _balik,_ he can reverse the judgment of Aslan. Is he right?"

Massoud scoffed. "That question is so utterly beneath all of us, you should be ashamed to even ask it. The Red Death is the Man's way of shedding our blood for our sins. If that is what he wants to do, who can stop him?"

The cheetah gave a dull blink. "Well, I happen to agree with you. But, by law, I'm supposed to let the Council of Mareshahs cross-examine you next."

The professor gave him a curt nod and turned to face the Mareshahs. Moro went back to grooming his paw, and this time the cheetah was out of the professor's eyeline. The professor's smile was short-lived; Reza stood up from his seat and looked the professor in the face.

"Dr. Massoud, you said the _balik_ is Aslan's instrument of judgment upon us. What evidence do you have of this?"

The professor paused and pursed his lips. "I will not answer a fool, and I will certainly not answer his folly. Is there anyone in this Council who has a _valid_ question for me?"

No one replied.

Salman turned to the professor. "Dr. Massoud, it seems there are no further questions. You may be seated. Now I will ask Reza to take his stand and present his case."

On cue, Reza strode from behind his table. As the wind from Dr. Massoud's exit breezed all around him, Reza drew in a calming breath. All eyes were on Reza now; even Moro had stopped grooming himself, but only to glare at him. Standing in the center of the room made Reza wonder if the eyes of the world were on him. But then he saw the Lion, the true Aslan, standing before him in a sweet and golden memory, and the thought filled him with Lion strength...

 _Reza blinked back tears. "You should have left me dead," he said, forcing a sob from breaking forth. "You should have spared my son and left me dead."_

 _"I still have work for you to do," said Aslan. "Nothing you have done will ever change that."_

 _"But I was a coward and a fool—a damned fool!" Reza blinked again, and this time the tears broke free. "You know what I did!"_

 _"I know who you truly are, Son of Adam," said the Lion. "You are the man whom I have chosen to bring truth and justice to your people, a nation that has long forgotten the meanings of the words. Your time has come, Reza; you must be strong and brave, and take the adventure that awaits you."_

The memory faded away as the Assembly slipped back into focus, but the wave of Lion strength broke over him. In its wake was a measure of peace.

"In our language, the word 'Sarazen' means 'supreme leader of men.' But the limitations of human and animal languages do not fully express the duties and qualifications of the title. A Sarazen must be a warrior and statesman and ambassador; he must also possess courage and strength that continue when everyone else around him has failed. But that courage is not limited to the fields of battle; it extends to the pursuit of justice and truth—a pursuit that has taken us into unfamiliar and uncomfortable lands. We are faced with evidence that challenges our most deeply held beliefs, and our discomfort is profound. To follow the evidence to its conclusion may be one of the greatest challenges our generation has to face, because it means facing our fears of the Man Aslan and the Red Death. But as Sarazen, I will lead us in the pursuit of that truth, and I will continue to defend this country and lead the Mareshahs and their _jamiras_ in the pursuit of justice and truth. Thank you."

Reza lowered himself into his chair. When he lifted his head and glanced about the room, he saw men and beasts smiling and giving him their nods of approval. Others glared at him, with Moro's stare the darkest of them all.

Salman cleared his throat. "If there are any questions of the Mareshah, you may ask them now."

Moro gave it no reply, but continued to glare at Reza. "A fortnight ago, we had something of a row, did we not?"

Reza smirked. "If you mean the time you disobeyed a direct order from me, and when you attempted to execute forty children? Yes, you could say we had a row."

"Does the Assembly know you tried to have me killed?"

"Yes, and they know that you disobeyed my direct orders."

Moro smirked. "You don't seem to have a high regard for the Talking Beasts of Erizad. Trying to kill me was a low point in your career. But then there's the matter of Faraji. You sent him on a worthless quest because some impostor wrote a letter, promising medicine for your son."

"I had no reason to suspect anything."

"There was your mistake. Unfortunately, it was the most recent. Twelve years ago, you rescued him from Calormen. From my point of view, it looks as though you stole him from his family—assuming he had any at all."

"I was in Tehishbaan, rescuing slaves," said Reza. "Faraji was not my priority. When I rode into the town square, I saw him and another cheetah surrounded by two pikemen. When I drew closer, I heard one of the cheetahs say, 'Farewell, brother.' I knew the other one had to be rescued."

"That, or you wanted a trophy for your work. You were—what? twenty-one, twenty-two?—a young and promising soldier who desperately wanted to be Mareshah."

"That was not the story," said Reza. "Their parents were Saheeb and Zareenah, the cheetah aristocrats who served the Tarkaan of Zalindreh. The two of them were responsible for sending Faraji and his brother to war against Narnia and the North. Beresh was only twenty, but he was responsible for high-profile assassinations and murders in Archenland and Narnia. If Faraji hadn't been killed by him, he would have lived a life of crime and conquest. I felt compelled to take him away from that situation."

"How nice of you," said Moro. "I suppose I should get to know Faraji when he comes back. After all, it would be delightful to meet such a courageous cheetah—one who was tricked into going North and suffered from the Red Death because of you."

Murmurs and gasps rippled through the assembly. Reza turned to Ali, who bowed his head in sorrow.

"Is that true?" said Reza. "Was Faraji in Rasul?"

"He told me not to tell you, my friend," said Ali. "He said you had parted on unfriendly terms, and he didn't want you to know where he was."

Moro chuckled. "Well, Reza, it seems we know all there is to know. You are irrational and selfish in all your dealings. You took Faraji from his family in Calormen. You treated him with contempt and hate. At the same time, you treated your own family with contempt and hate—using a whip on your children, treating your wife harshly. Now the Lion has come—this so-called true Aslan who supposedly rose you back to life—and you swoon over him as you would over a Calormene temptress with too little to wear. What's more, you believe in impossible ideas—ideas about the Red Death that are blasphemy against the Man Aslan. You fancy yourself to be a Mareshah, when you can't even seem to lead your own family. Your boys start fights at school in the name of the Lion. Your wife insults me and challenges me to my face. She speaks of matters she cannot understand, all because _you_ have stopped training her to keep her mouth shut. You are a traitor to the Man Aslan, and you are an embarrassment to every man who calls himself Mareshah. You violated the terms of your notice by leaving Palár without our permission, and for what? A stubborn, small-town doctor who claims the same outrageous lies as you? I daresay that we might do better with that crotchety old professor who blusters, because at least he doesn't have a history of ineffective and foolish leadership."

Reza paused and lowered his head. One would think he was praying, but instead he was fighting the tears that had started to well up in his eyes. Memories flooded his head—of how he had rescued Faraji and forced the cat in his duress to pledge allegiance to Erizad, of how he had whipped and beaten Faraji to put an ounce of sense into such a violent Calormene skull, how he had been tricked by a letter that sent Faraji north, and how he had whipped his boys in his fits of anger and slapped his own wife in a loss of his temper.

When Reza composed himself, strength was back on his face. "Yes…I received a letter that claimed to be from the High King of Narnia. Yes, I sent Faraji on a mission that exposed him to the Red Death. Yes, I tried to put some sense into his head. He attacked the Narnian horse and forced him to arrange an escape, and I could not let that go undisciplined. And yes, at times I was harsh with my family. But we know why I did what I did—it is the same reason any father or commander has done it in the last century: _fear._ I was afraid of Aslan, because I was taught to be afraid of Aslan. I lived in that fear, and I acted out of it. For that, I must bear the burden of my shame. But now, the Lion Aslan is here in our country, and by his power and wisdom, he is helping us set things right—not just in Erizad, but in _me._ I am not the man I was, because the true Aslan has changed me. I was dead, and now I am alive.

"Moro said that I am ignorant of my history, but what I am about to tell you is based in fact. Aslan is a Lion, the Great Lion. We know that he has brought four children from another world to rule with love and justice over Narnia. We know who started the myth of the Man Aslan—it was Teimuraz, the Sarazen of a hundred years ago, who saw Calormenes dismember and behead his people. He responded by creating the myth of the Man Aslan—to frighten his people away from anyone would do them harm. He meant well, but his lies have grown out of control. Our own people are terrified of a Man who doesn't even exist. Now that we have a chance to rise above our fears, I am going to take it. We know the true Aslan, the Great Lion who has been among us, and in two weeks we have learned more of the true Aslan than we did in two decades of education, because we did not learn about him—we are now learning _from_ him. We know how he rules. We know what he cares about. We know our history, and we know what the Red Death does. If you do not choose me to be your Sarazen, then choose someone who knows the truth and is willing to act on it. It is better to know the truth and change our ways than it is to remain steadfast in error."

Murmurs fell across the hall, and Hussein let out a cynical scoff. "So these are your _superior_ candidates," he said to Salman. "A crotchety old professor and a Mareshah who believes Aslan is a Lion. If this is the best you and the Assembly can do, I should be sorely disappointed."

"Finally, something we have in common," said Moro dully.

Hussein's eyebrows rose. "Well, I'm glad you're starting to see it my way."

"I am doing no such thing. As terrible as Reza and Dr. Massoud would be, they would be a far better sight than you. The only way I would ever appoint you to be my Sarazen is if the space between my ears were replaced by a coconut."

Hussein's face warped into a scowl. "I have had enough of you!"

"And I have had enough of this charade. Forty-nine men have passed through this Assembly, and all of you have been fools. You have no experience, no wits, no comprehension of the law. I daresay that if we molded every one of you into one Sarazen, you still wouldn't know how to lead children in a dance."

Hussein leapt to his feet. "I PROTEST!"

"You can protest all you want, son of man, but it will do you no good!"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" roared Salman.

"I am not finished," said Moro. "I have contempt against everyone in this Assembly, and I haven't even begun to complain of _you."_

Salman fell still.

"You and the Hafas have been in power for two weeks now, and every conceivable problem is getting worse. Riots are breaking out in every city. Blasphemy is being committed against the Man of Narnia. And now the Mareshah of Palár loses control of his own city—small wonder, as he can't keep his own children from getting into fights at school. But no matter how foolish the Mareshah is, it is the Hafas who ought to be enforcing the laws. Instead, you waffle over who should be the next Sarazen. You subject the Assembly to an endless parade of mediocre men. Worse, you strike down the death penalty for blasphemy. You refuse to execute the followers of the Lion and all other manner of traitor. You have infuriated Aslan so intensely that the Order of Aslan is doing your job for you. This country does not need ineptitude. It needs its Sarazen, a supreme authority worthy of the name. I served under Mustafa for a year, and before that, I served the Mareshah of Arkanaz. I have fought for this country. I know the law better than any of these fools we've questioned. In this extraordinary and disgraceful absence of competent men—I hereby nominate _myself_ as a candidate for the next Sarazen."

At once, half the Assembly rose out of their seats. Cheers of approval and roars of anger burst from man and beast alike.

"I object!" said Hussein. "I will not be usurped by a _beast!"_

"And I refuse to bow before a cat and kiss his paws," said Dr. Massoud. "Salman, I demand that you throw him out of the Assembly now!"

Salman's face had flushed with anger, and he didn't know who ought to receive the full force of it. He glanced back and forth, from Moro to the professor. And then, without warning, he let out a weighty and angry sigh.

"Overruled."

Whatever noise the Councils had made before was nothing compared to the explosion of noise that filled the hall now. It seemed the whole world rose up to protest. All but Reza, Ali, and Kalil sat calmly at their tables, while Salman shouted and cracked his gavel.

"As distasteful as this may be to you, it is only fair. Moro knows the law better than any man who has passed through this hall, and he has served under two of the most powerful commanders in Erizad."

Moro nodded. "Well, then, I move that we dispense with the rest of the candidates, and we let the Assembly vote between Reza and myself for the title of Sarazen."

All hands and paws were raised now—all but Hussein's. The man glared at Moro and let out a huff through his gritted teeth. "Mark my words, you little beast. No political maneuvering will take me away from my destiny. By the Man's sword and shield, I will be the next Sarazen of this country."

Moro seemed to laugh at him with his eyes, then turned to the rest of the Councils. "Gentlemen, I implore you to take heed. The wrath of the Man Aslan is at the door. If we fail to appoint a Sarazen worthy of the name, the Man will pour out the Red Death upon us. We cannot challenge his judgments against us and expect to walk away from it alive. The Red Death will fall upon this country if he so wishes it. It is upon us to heed his wrath and fury, and beg that he spare our lives—which he will _not_ do if we appoint Reza to assume the throne."

Reza brushed it away with a shake of his head, then glanced across the hall. "Moro wishes to rule you with fear, but I implore you to listen to the truth. We have the power to save lives, and he will not even consider it. You have heard it for yourselves: If Calormenes are plotting to release the Red Death all over the country, he will not do anything to stop it or even investigate it to see if it's true. Gentlemen, we are talking about appointing a beast who will not spread knowledge but _suppress_ it. We are talking about kneeling before a cat who will command and not lead. Moro has tried to execute children for petty offenses, and now he is talking about reinstating the punishments for blasphemy and calling for the execution of innocent people. We must give ourselves fully to the pursuit of truth and justice, we must throw ourselves into the effort that is needed to free ourselves of these old fears, we must do better than appointing a leader who will manipulate his people with fear, and we have to do it now."

Cheers and applause broke out among taunts and growls, and Salman sighed and rose from his chair. Once more, he brought down his gavel with a sharp slam. "Before this Assembly falls out of order, we need to dispense with the debate. We can continue with this pretense of law and order, but it is clear that we need to make a choice. Erizad has fallen into chaos and fear unlike any we have seen before, and we need a leader to ascend the throne and bring calm to this country now—before another drop of blood is shed by the Order of Aslan, or by the Man himself."

Silence filled the hall, and men and beasts lowered themselves back into their seats. Salman followed suit, and he lowered the gavel onto the table. "All those in favor of Reza, will you please raise your hands."

One by one, hands and paws rose into the air.

"And those in favor of Moro, I will ask you to raise your hands."

Hands and paws fell, while the rest rose to take their place.

Salman paused. "Moro, it seems that the vote is tied, is it not?"

The cheetah nodded. "The tally is twenty-six in favor and twenty-six against, with no abstentions."

Murmurs filled the hall, and Salman sighed and bowed his head. "By the Code of Aslan, it is up to me to cast the deciding vote."

His eyes glanced about the room. All faces had turned toward him now. He lowered his head and softly let out a trembling breath. The man seemed to be buying every last second he could. When he lifted his head, the silence grew even thicker.

"I have been sitting in this chair for twenty-five years, and I have presided over many a difficult case. Never in my career have I been presented with a decision so precarious—one whose outcome, regardless of the decision, will affect so many for better or for worse. Appointing Moro means bowing before a cheetah who lives by the old ways, and appointing Reza means bowing before a man who has served this country with distinction. Were this any other time in our history, I would not hesitate to appoint Reza to be our Sarazen. Unfortunately, we do not live in any other time. Here and now, Reza has put us in an ever more precarious position. He has made statements that challenge our most deeply held beliefs, and his words and deeds continue to provoke the Order of Aslan. If we should discover that Aslan is indeed a Man, that Man will pour out the Red Death upon this country. As Marehafa of Erizad, I cannot let that happen."

With that, he picked up the gavel, and he took in a heavy breath.

"By the Man's sword and shield...I hereby appoint Moro to be the Sarazen of Erizad."

As the gavel fell, the room burst out in cheers and outcries. Hussein and Dr. Massoud leapt to their feet, shouting over each other to demand the motion be rejected. Some men and beasts shouted insults at Moro, while others cheered and roared in approval, and others sat and stared with open mouths, not knowing what to say.

Moro lifted his spotted head all the higher and aimed his haughty gaze at Reza. The Mareshah gave it no acknowledgement, but continued to sit with his hands folded atop the table.

As Moro stood on all fours, the room fell still. Looks of admiration and shock and anger turned toward him en masse.

"I want to congratulate those of you who have made the best and only choice. Rest assured that I will not wait until my coronation to reward your choice. By the power and wrath of the Man Aslan, I will bring justice and order to Erizad. I will punish all wickedness that all have wrought against him. In the name of the Man Aslan, I will make Erizad the great jewel of his crown, and his people will once again be worthy to call themselves the Chosen of Aslan."

He turned his smug gaze on Reza. "To that end, I will purge this country of everyone and everything who has blasphemed the Great Man—starting with you. It was terrible enough for you to try assassinating me, worse that you speak evil against the Man Aslan. In accordance with Chapter I, Section 1 of the Code of Aslan, I place you under arrest for high treason and conspiracy against the Man Aslan."

Reza kept his calm gaze on Moro, but his heart slammed in his chest. He had spent years in military training, preparing for days when he would resist interrogation and assassination attempts, but nothing could ever prepare anyone for the real things. Reza felt the calm in his heart threatening to turn to chaos; the words that leapt to mind went unspoken, except in the depths of his heart. _Help me, Aslan._

Moro swung to two guards at the front door. "Take him away."

Reza rose to his feet. There would be no waiting for the guards to take him; he would go to them, to take the misadventure that awaited him. The guards stared at him as though he were a stranger, and they gripped his arms with all their strength. Reza matched them footfall for footfall as they led him out of the hall. Behind them, Salman stood behind his table; his head bowed, as if he had already begun to regret his choice. Moro stood atop his table, and his spotted tail flicked to and fro.


	12. The Rashness of the Sarazen

**Moro looked on** as the soldiers let Reza out of the chambers. As the door boomed shut, the Assembly turned to him with eyes wide and mouths agape. Moro didn't seem to notice them; instead, his face lifted in a sunny smile, and he swiveled his head toward Salman.

"Well, then," said the cheetah. "Now that we've settled the problem of Reza, we must turn our attention to another important matter. Tell me, human: Would it be possible to make a crown for me?"

Salman glowered at him.

"Oh, I don't mean one of those heavy, unwieldy things. (It's a wonder a man's head doesn't sink into his chest.) No, I would like a little circlet of gold, with rubies embedded in the cusps. Do you suppose our artisans could make it in time—or will I have to content myself with a mere _necklace?"_

Murmurs rippled through the Councils, and one head turned toward another. Salman kept glaring at him. "With respect, _mehan,_ do you not appreciate the seriousness of our situation?"

"Of course I do," said Moro. "A Sarazen needs his symbols of authority. How else will people know to bow before him?"

"We are in an emergency. People are blaspheming the Man Aslan, and the Order of Aslan is out of control. If there is anything that needs to be attended to, it is _that_ and that alone."

Moro rolled his eyes. "Oh, all right," he said. "I can't stand it when you speak the language of reason." With that, he turned to the Assembly and aimed his cold gaze at them.

"Half of you lacked the sense to vote for me, and those of you who refused to do so should be ashamed. Were I more inclined toward it, I would relieve you of your heads. However, as I am in no mood to dispose of half the most powerful men and beasts of Erizad, I will weed out those who are most likely to oppose me. Therefore I will ask this only once: Who among you is a follower of this…Lion?"

Moro did not even need to blink. At once, the cheetah Kalil and Dr. Sharaz rose from their tables. Another man, and another, and a tiger and another cheetah rose to their feet.

Moro's glare grew hotter at the sight of them. "If there is one thing I will not tolerate, it is traitors and blasphemers. If you value your lives, you will renounce your lies here and now."

"No," said Ali. "I will not deny what I have seen."

"Nor will I," said Kalil. "By the Lion's mane, here we stand."

The men and beasts who had risen to their feet grunted and bellowed their affirmations. At that, Moro drew in a breath and threw back his head.

"GUARDS!"

* * *

 **The iron bars** swung shut with a deafening slam, and the guards marched down the dusty corridor. Kalil sighed and sat on his haunches. Ali sat next to Reza on the stone bench, and he loosed a mournful sigh.

"So it begins."

Reza shook his head. "My friend, I cannot tell you how sorry I am—"

"You asked me to do something I should have done five years ago." Ali leaned against the wall. A hint of a smile lifted his beard. "Now that I have completed my task, I can die at ease."

Kalil slapped a paw against the floor. "That insufferable beast. If he wants to kill all of us, why is he not doing it now?"

Reza shrugged. "He might wait until his coronation—to make an example of us with the whole country watching. Besides, there might be hundreds of us across the country. He might want to find as many as he can—so the Man Aslan doesn't punish him for negligence."

"It's out of our hands now," said Ali. "We did our part. Now we can hope your men will do theirs."

Kalil tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"Reza and I visited his men just after we arrived in Palár. We gave them all our research—all my reports on the Red Death, all his work on the history of Narnia."

"Good." A note of optimism lifted the cheetah's voice. "Then we may be able to rest easily, with the confidence that they will do their job."

Reza was still for a moment. "I hope so."

* * *

 **Yassir lowered** the parchment onto the table and leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh. "I don't want to hear it, Esmail. We have our orders."

"Don't you understand, my friend?" The soldier's closely cut beard hid the furrows in his angry face. "Reza is not in command. You don't have to act on this information."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Confound it, man! Don't you hear what you're saying? Everyone was taught the Red Death is the wrath of the Man Aslan. Are you saying all our teachers were wrong?"

"They might be," said Yassir. "But we won't know for sure if we don't investigate."

"We might not know, even if we _do_ investigate," said a cheetah. _"_ And if we do, it's only a matter of time before Moro finds out."

"We have to take the chance, Behrooz. Faraji was convinced enough to warn us of the threat, and Reza was convinced enough to warn the Assembly. And I am convinced enough to risk my career and my life for this. Gentlemen and beasts, think this through. If Calormenes are not in this country, all we have done is reached a dead end. If they are, we might be able to save thousands of lives. This is worth investigating, even risking our careers, if only so that we pursue the truth. If any of you feels differently, I will ask you to resign right now."

No one said a word.

"Very well," said Yassir. "Esmail, I want you and your men to meet with every merchant in town. I want a citywide prohibition on the _balik_ to go into effect immediately. If any merchant refuses to cooperate, take him into custody."

Esmail paused, then withdrew a breath. "Yes, _mehan."_

"Bashir, I want you and your men to meet with every doctor and herbalist in this city. I want you to discuss the consequences of a nationwide outbreak. I want evacuation scenarios, death rates—and I want to know the most likely means by which the disease might be spread."

The mustached man nodded.

"The rest of you are with me. Our priority is the Order of Aslan. Reza thinks Calormenes might be leading the Order; from this moment on, we will proceed under that assumption. We must take these people alive by any means necessary and get any information from them. No exceptions."

Behrooz lifted a paw. "What about these reports? Surely we cannot just keep them _here."_

Yassir paused. "I will take care of that."

"Why won't you tell us where to hide them?"

"Because I don't want to task any of you with this. If you don't know where the reports are hidden, you have nothing to deny."

Unease fell across the cheetah's face.

Yassir withdrew a heavy sigh. "I know this is difficult for you all to accept. If you'll forgive my candor, I find the whole thing to be unsettling. But as far as I'm concerned, we have to investigate. I know that I am asking you to put your careers on the line, but something strange is happening in Erizad—everything from the outbreak in Rasul to the appointment of Moro as our supreme commander—and until we get to the bottom of it, we have to assume the worst. We have to find these people and stop them, no matter the cost. Are there any objections?"

A pause. A few men and beasts fidgeted. Some looked ready to say something, and one man opened his mouth to form the words—but all that came out was a pent-up breath.

Yassir nodded. "Very well," he said. "Let's get to work—"

Without warning, the door burst in and hit the wall with a mighty slam. Soldiers streamed into the foyer and spread out, like a wave from a broken dam, and Moro burst through the fray, his necklace swinging left and right.

"Hamid, search every office and cabinet. Walid, confiscate those papers. The rest of you, guard these traitors. YOU!" Moro rose up on his hind paws and shoved Yassir against the wall. "Where are the rest of your men?"

Yassir gritted his teeth. "On duty."

"Doing what?"

"Their jobs."

Moro smirked at him, then turned to one of the soldiers. "Take him to Andur."

Anger broke across Yassir's face. "On what charges?"

"Sedition and treason. I know what you're doing, human: You're telling your men to investigate Reza's absurd claims."

"That is not sedition, and it is not treason. We are investigating a threat by Calormenes. You cannot arrest someone for doing that!"

"Do you believe that Aslan is a Lion?"

A pause. "I do."

Moro nodded. "Now I have a charge. Yassir Abadi, I place you under arrest for treason and blasphemy against the Man Aslan."

"He is not a Man, and you know it! Damn it, if Calormenes are in this country and you don't stop them, thousands of people will die!"

"How frightening," said Moro. He rolled his eyes and fell back onto all four paws. "Gentlemen?"

Moro ducked away as two soldiers grasped Yassir by the arms, leading him step for step out of the foyer as the royal guard bustled to and fro.

* * *

 **Rameesh glared** at the soldier. "Are you certain of this?"

"I saw it with my own eyes," said the young man. "Corrath took his own life before he could infiltrate Reza's army. And now the Erizadi know that we're in this country."

Rameesh stared flatly at him. "What is your point?"

"My lord, we have to abandon this mission. If we stay here, they will _find_ us!"

"No," said Rameesh. "This mission will go on as planned. Compose yourself, and be grateful that I haven't killed you for your cowardice. Our employer has given us our final instructions—"

"But my lord, we have an even bigger problem. Moro is now the Sarazen."

Rameesh stood in place. His eyes had grown wide. "So _this_ is what our beneficent and nameless employer has done? Help the Assembly appoint a _beast?"_

Ganesh spread his hands apart. "Now do you understand the seriousness of our situation? Moro is too concerned about his reputation. Any threat to his leadership will be quelled. We cannot continue this mission—not with Moro in power!"

Rameesh paused. He had lifted a finger to make some sort of remark, but a thought landed into his head—and at once, he smiled. "Oh, yes, we can." He strode from behind the desk and laid a hand on Ganesh's shoulder. "What you call a problem, my friend, I call a solution. Now that Moro is in power, we can still use him to our advantage."

"By Tash, how could we do that?"

"I am trying to tell you, so don't interrupt me again. In two days, a fishing vessel will pull into port. It will be carrying a shipment of _balik._ Without Reza or his army to stop us, we can bring it into Erizad unimpeded. Once in our control, it will be distributed across the country. Half of it will stay here in Palár for the coronation feasts, and the other half will be sent to the rest of the towns."

"And how will Moro help us?"

"Think about it: Moro will need _someone_ to lead Palár. What better army to do that than the Order of Aslan? Once we replace Reza's army, we will dispose of Moro and our nameless employer."

Ganesh gave an uneasy smile. "But what do we do until then?"

Rameesh smiled. "Nothing," he said. "Now that the Erizadi have a Sarazen worthy of the name, it has to look as if Moro has brought order and justice to Erizad. Until we become the new army of Palár, the Order of Aslan will not go about. Remember—our employer created us for the sake of causing unrest. We will do that only when necessary."

Ganesh paused, then worked up the strength for a nod. "Very well, my lord."

* * *

THE NEXT DAY…

 **Reza let out a sigh.** "I have never seen this prison so full," he said, "not even during Mustafa's reign." So it was. Every cell as far as the eye could see was filled with men and beasts. Another cluster of them had just been pushed through the corridor, clamoring and protesting with every step.

Kalil loosed a low growl. "What fools they were, half the Assembly voting for him," said the cheetah. "Did they not even imagine that something like this would happen? Yesterday, he purged the Assembly and arrested your men. Today, he is bringing in traitors from the rest of Erizad. What is he going to do tomorrow—pull people out of their homes?"

Reza shook his head. "No doubt," he said softly. "When Mustafa was still in power, it almost came to that. Moro might be finishing what Mustafa tried to start."

Ali scoffed. "Is the courtyard of the jail even big enough for so many people? Or will they take us outside the city and kill us there?"

Just as the words left Ali's mouth, a distant voice made his ears swivel. Keys rattled in the someone's hand. Kalil turned to Reza, aiming a look of worry. Reza looked just as worried as the soft pawfalls drew closer. Moro stepped into view, his necklace bobbing against his muscular chest. At once, jeers and boos and insults (far too crude to be translated into English) filled the jail cell. It seemed only Reza and Kalil and Ali had the sense to keep quiet.

Moro waited for the noise to die down. "As you all know, you have been arrested for capital crimes against me and against the Man Aslan. Between your calling Aslan a 'Lion' and investigating the Red Death without good reason, I have grown impatient with you all. In three days, I will hold my coronation, during which every last one of you will be placed against the wall of Andur and executed like the traitors you are. Now I—"

Another wave of jeers and taunts rose up, making Moro's ears swivel behind his head. With a bored sigh, Moro lifted his head up to a guard, who brought the butt of his pike down like a judge's gavel. The hall fell silent again.

"I see no reason to spill blood without due cause. That is why I am making you an offer: If you are willing to renounce your lies and swear fealty to me and to the Man Aslan, I will set you free."

Murmurs filled the hall, but fell away into silence.

"Fine, if you insist on being stubborn," said Moro dully. He turned to one of his guards. "Open the cell."

The guard nodded and reached for his jangling keys. The door groaned open, and Reza rose to attention—

"Not you," said Moro. "The other one—Ali."

Reza shook his head. "No. Take me instead."

Moro paused. "I might just do that," he said. "Ali? Come forth."

Reza laid a hand on Ali's shoulder. "Don't do this. You don't have to—"

But Ali gave it no reply. He strode forward, following the guard out of the cell. At Moro's command, Ali stopped, and the cheetah turned to face him.

"I don't care what you do to me," said Ali. "I know what is true, and nothing you do will change that. The _balik_ carry the Red Death—this disease is preventable. The Lion is the true Aslan, no matter what you say—"

But that was all he spoke. Without warning, Moro roared and leapt into the air, and he brought a pawful of claws across the old man's throat.

Everything shifted into slow motion after that. Ali's face went blank and pale. A spray of blood splattered against the wall. Ali's legs buckled, and he toppled backward with a crash. At once, the corridor burst with shouts and cries. Kalil roared at Moro and screamed, "TRAITOR! MURDERER!" Reza's eyes brimmed with tears, and he leaned his head against the bars of the door.

Moro paid none of it any attention, but waited for the noise to settle. "I did not hesitate to kill the old man, and I will not hesitate to put the rest of you all to death. If you have any value over your lives, you will reconsider your position. You can either inform the guards that you have changed your mind—or wait until tomorrow, and we will do this all over again."

At that, Moro swung to Reza. "I will take you up on your offer."

Kalil crouched and let out a hiss. "You won't take him. You'll have to go through me."

"Kalil, no!" said Reza. With a sob, he stood up from the bench. "I will go."

Once again, the cell door swung open, and two guards choked Reza's arms. Behind him, the cell door swung inward with a loud clang. Everything around Reza was a bleary spinning mess; he didn't care to blink away the tears. He felt himself being led down one hall and up another flight of stairs; before he realized it, he and the guards stood at the threshold of an empty conference room.

The guards opened the door, and at once Reza felt his muscles tensing. Salman had been standing in the room. At once, the man put on a stunned look, but his true feelings shone through. Reza thought it looked like guilt. Salman and Moro shared an uneasy look before the man gave a curt bow and hurried out of the room.

Reza glared at him and blinked tears out of his eyes. "What was he doing here?"

Moro ignored it. "If you want to stop me from shedding more blood, you will tell me what I want to know. Two weeks ago, you and your army tried to rescue forty children from their lawful execution."

"It was not lawful. You bent the law to suit your whims."

"And after that, you helped take those children into hiding. Where have you hidden them?"

Reza said nothing.

"You should also know that your delusions have spread far and wide," he said. "It seems this so-called Lion—this giant cat who calls himself the true Aslan—is still causing a stir among our cities. Hundreds of people are following him, and yet we have found only a handful. Where are the rest of them, Reza?"

He gave no reply.

Moro glared up at him. "We'll see how stubborn you are. Naji? Hamid? Take him downstairs."

The guards nodded and said, "Yes, _mehan."_

As if it were an afterthought, he tossed his head over his shoulder. "Oh, and do let me know when he talks."

The doors hung open for a moment—and on the other side of one was Salman.

As soon as Reza and his captors were out of sight, the Marehafa ducked back into the room. He stared after them with narrowing eyes, then pulled the door shut and turned to Moro. "We have a problem."

Moro glared at him. "I do not recall giving you permission to speak."

"Forget about formalities, _mehan._ Lest you forget, I cast the vote for you. Without me, you would not be in power."

Moro gave a soft growl. Salman stared at his paws, but no claws came out. "Fine," said the cheetah. "Speak your mind, but be quick."

"What you are proposing is madness. You are asking your army to go into people's homes and arrest followers of the Lion. We do not have the manpower to rein in all these people, and we do not have enough space for them here in Andur."

"What are you suggesting, Salman—that we let the followers of the Lion go unchallenged?"

"I am only suggesting that you replace Reza's army as soon as possible—and that you employ _them_ to arrest the followers of the Lion."

Moro paused. "But whom would we hire to accomplish that?"

"The Order of Aslan."

"Rioters and ruffians?" Moro scoffed. "Surely you must be joking."

"Rioters and ruffians they may be, but they are loyal to the Man Aslan, and they will fight for truth and justice in Erizad. Besides, there are hundreds of them. How long will it take for us to amass such an army with anyone else?"

Moro tilted his head. "What is your interest in this, human?" he said. "What do you have to gain from proffering these suggestions?"

Salman showed a nervous smile. "I am simply doing what I think is best for Erizad, _mehan."_

"Perhaps," said Moro. "Still, I can't help but wonder if you voted for me with all your heart."

Salman gave no reply.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER…

 **The night** was moonless and cloudless as Rameesh and his men marched down the pier. The silhouette of a ship and its two masts drew closer, blotting out the stars, until half the sky seemed to be covered by the ship. A sailor tossed a length of rope over the starboard side, and it landed with a wet and heavy thud. The smell of fish filled the air, and two great nets hovering over the sides bulged with their cargo.

Sailors whispered amongst each other, and a strip of the ship's side began to fall. The sailors tugged at the ropes, lowering the gangplank arm by arm. The bridge landed with a heavy thud, and the captain (or so Rameesh gathered, by the black and gold uniform adorned with two chevrons on each arm) stepped onto the pier. The man held a lantern up to his face, so Rameesh could see his puzzled look.

"Hikmat?" said the captain. "Confound it, I thought you had returned to Barát."

Rameesh nodded, flattening his voice into an Erizadi accent. "No, Mehmet—not yet. Duty compels me to stay in Palár."

Mehmet tilted his head. "Are you quite all right, Hikmat? Your face seems…different, somehow."

Rameesh sighed. "Alas, the work has been difficult, and I have suffered my share of injuries. Nor have I had the opportunity to shave. But no matter. You will take this delivery to—"

Mehmet lifted a hand. "It won't be quite that easy, my friend. I need a senior official in Andur to approve this order."

Rameesh felt a pang of fear rush up his chest. "We were expecting this delivery."

"It is only routine. I am sorry that we had to arrive at such a late hour as this, and to inconvenience you as we are, but I still need someone to approve the shipment. If you could wake Reza or someone in Andur with enough seniority—"

Just then, a voice carried over the pier. "It's all right, Mehmet. I will approve it."

At once, all turned to the speaker. Salman was dressed in a soldier's uniform, blue and gold trim with a silver pip along the collar. He reached into his coat and pulled out a pen and inkwell, and with a few quick strokes the nib of the feather dashed along the parchment.

"Thank you, my friend," he said flatly. "Now if you will pass the cargo to these gentlemen, they will take it from here."

Mehmet stared with an uneasy look on his face, then nodded. "Right away, _mehan."_

Rameesh started to duck away, but Salman grabbed him by the arm and looked him in the face.

"What is this?"

"Oh, I think you know," said Salman. "You will deliver them to my house before dawn…and you will keep your life."

Rameesh wrestled his arm away. "Don't ever touch me again."

Salman gripped Rameesh's collar and shoved him against the side of the ship. "You know what is at stake," he said. "I kept you alive because it suited both our purposes, but if you so much as defy the terms of our agreement, then by Tash, it will cost you your head—and not even the Sarazen will protect you from what happens next."

Ganesh glanced at Salman, then at Rameesh. "What is he talking about, my master? What does he mean?"

Rameesh shuddered and glared at Ganesh. "Go make the delivery. We can handle the _balik."_

Ganesh's mouth fell in confusion. "What delivery?"

"Just make it!"

Ganesh stared at him for a moment, then seemed to understand. He spun on his heel and shouted something in Calormene, then he and a unit of men marched up the pier.

Rameesh turned to Salman. "There," he muttered. "You have your wish. If it would not trouble you to unhand me..."

Salman let a moment pass, then let go of the man and stepped back. Rameesh grunted and straightened his coat, then turned and led his men up the pier, and the sailors carried the bulging nets between them as Salman looked on.

* * *

 **Reza sat** unconscious in a chair. His hands were tied behind its back and his ankles tied to its legs. Beside him sat a knife and a glowing poker in a pit of coals. His shirtless torso was marred by wounds, and a trickle of blood ran out of his nose.

Moro let out a scoff, then turned to Naji and Hamid. "You subjected him to that for two days, and he gave you nothing."

Naji shook his head. "You gave the order, _mehan."_

Hamid paused. "What do you want us to do with him?"

Moro let out a breath. "Well, if he won't tell us where the followers of the Lion are, then we have no use for him. Besides, my coronation is in less than an hour." The cheetah bobbed his head. "Wake him up."

Hamid nodded and pulled open the cell door. His boots crunched against the dirt and grit of the stone floor. With a lazy sigh, he took a half-empty bucket of water and tossed it across Reza. The Mareshah jolted awake and gasped, wincing in pain, water dripping down his head and face.

Moro smirked. "I underestimated you," said the cheetah. "It seems that you will do anything to keep your secrets—even believing in this so-called Lion. Not that it will matter, of course: You will die along with the rest of your men, and the followers of the Lion whom we've discovered in our cities. I hope it comforts you to know you will be in plenty of company."

Reza said nothing.

"Does it not trouble you?" said the cheetah. "Your precious Lion couldn't stop me from becoming the Sarazen."

Reza's eyes filled with tears. "No," he said, his weary voice quavering. "Though I do not know the means or the reasons, the ways of the true Aslan will always work."

"How pious of you. But those words will be your undoing. It is the Man before whom we bow. It is the Man who sends the Red Death upon his enemies. If only I had the ear of the Man, I would beseech him to pour out the Red Death on you and your fellow traitors. However…it seems I will have to settle with an execution."

Reza scoffed. "Of how many?"

Moro twitched his tail. "Five hundred. In my view, it isn't enough." The cheetah turned away and lifted his head to the guards. "Dress him back up—and bring him and the rest of these traitors to the wall."

"Yes, _mehan."_

* * *

 **The sun** rose between two billowing clouds and cast Palár's buildings in hues of gold. Through the streets stood crowds of people and beasts, from the quiet towns of the Far South to the palaces of Arkanaz and Barát—all waiting for the moment when the new Sarazen would stride through the northern gates. Of course, the whole of Erizad knew what had happened—messengers had gone out the very day of the vote—but the crowd was still tense and anxious. Many longed to see their new Sarazen, beast though he was; others were angry and dejected that someone such as he could be appointed.

At long last, a long, low call of a great horn blared across the morning sky. Birds scattered, beasts rose to their feet, and the men and women and children turned to attention. The Marehafa, adorned in his white and gold uniform, shouted with as much gusto as he could:

"Gentlemen of Erizad! Beasts of the Great South! Just as the dark night of evil fell upon this land…the golden dawn of peace has come. By the Man Aslan, by the Man's sword and shield, I present to you our new sovereign, our new supreme commander, and a dear friend—Moro, the Sarazen of Erizad!"

The waves of cheers and applause broke over Palár like a tsunami, with such noise and raucour that the whole world might stop to wonder what had happened. On cue, two soldiers pulled open the city wall's northern gates, and in their yawning gap stood Moro, standing majestic and tall, his spotted tail flicking from one side to the other. Atop his small spotted head sat a crown of gold studded with rubies, and between the muscles of his chest sat his necklace—a new necklace, with a white gem held in place by the thin wire.

Moro basked in the applause and cheers and smiled at the waving flags and hands. A few jeers and taunts burst out, enough to make his ears twitch, but he seemed to smile all the more.

The soldiers who flanked him stepped forward, and Moro padded between them. Before him, the empty thoroughfare stretched all the way from there to Andur, and the gates closed behind them. On cue, the army's trumpeters and drummers struck up a tune. The ruffling of snares, the thundering of heavy kettle drums, and the chanting of trumpets filled the sky as a choir of men—all soldiers in the regiment—started to sing in Erizadi.

 _Behold the mighty Sarazen  
_ _Who comes to rule this land!  
_ _The strength of Aslan and his wrath  
_ _Be with him evermore!  
_ _Our traitors he will execute,  
_ _Our enemies he'll rout;  
_ _The strength of Aslan and his wrath  
_ _Go forward evermore!_

Moro paid little attention after that, for it was all a glorious blur. From the houses and rooftops and open windows, the country's eyes were all on him. Children waved hands and flags and gave big grins, while every other parent glared at him. Some beasts in the crowd snarled and snapped their jaws. Others cheered for him, while a few stood there and waited for this event to just be over with.

Before he knew it, his whiskers fell. It had all blurred by, and now the great face of the royal house Andur stood before him like a sheer cliff. Another horn blew once, then twice, and all fell still. The weight of the whole country seemed to be pressing in upon them. Along the wall, like a great chain, stood hundreds of prisoners, all in dirty white robes, all with their faces heavy and solemn. Moro disappeared inside a two-story building, then emerged a moment later on the roof. Two guards flanked him as he took his stand. All eyes were back on him.

"These men and beasts who stand before you here at Andur are guilty of capital offenses. Their crimes are numerous, and their crimes are vile. These people have desecrated our traditions by saying that Narnia is led by four children from another world. They have insulted our heritage by calling our previous Sarazen a liar and a deceiver. And now, some of these desecrators have further insulted the Man Aslan by making the most shocking and disgusting of claims: that Aslan is a Lion, and that the Red Death—the final judgment of Aslan upon his most vile enemies—is simply a preventable disease."

Waves of taunts filled the air, some at Moro. One tiger stepped into view and roared, "YOU'RE A RIGHT BLOODY LIAR, YOU BEAST!"

Moro paid it no heed. "As the Sarazen, I will bring justice to this country by disposing of these traitors and liars. Their crimes are worse than murder, and the sentence is death. The filth of this country will be purged, and this country will be brought to right in the name of Aslan!"

Roars and cheers went up anew, deafening the crowd and making Moro's ears spin backward. As the noise died down, Moro drew in a breath. "PRESENT ARMS!"

Like an orchestra entering its finale, a row of soldiers stepped forward. Their blue tunics stretched from one side of Andur to another. The sound of their boots falling in unison was like a gunshot.

"PREPARE ARMS!"

Like a troupe in the ballet, the soldiers nocked their arrows.

"And now, O faithful followers of the Man Aslan: Behold the execution of justice upon the evildoers of this country! Behold the wrath of Aslan! GENTLEMEN—"

Without warning a shrill voice screamed: "Help!"

The crowd fell quiet. The executioners lowered their arrows, and their heads spun about.

"What is this?!" said Moro. "Who _dares_ to interrupt this execution?!"

Murmurs rustled across the crowd, and men and beasts swung every which way. A cluster of screams grew into gasps and cries of horror. Waves of people poured every which way, as if they were running from an enemy. As Moro trotted to the northern edge of the roof, a knot of spectators broke away, and Moro's face fell.

A woman in the crowd held a cloth to her bleeding nose. Her long black hair was matted with sweat, and faint as a whisper came her sobs.

Reza didn't wait. He burst out of the row and charged across the street. "Everyone who is within three heads of her, go to the mail office across the way."

"What?!" said Moro. "How dare you refuse to be executed. Get back there!"

But Reza pushed the soldiers out of the way. He wove through the crowd and laid a hand on her shoulder. "My lady, be still. I'm here to help."

The woman nodded. Reza took her by the arm and led her through the now open street. All of a sudden, another commotion and another filled his ears on both sides. Across the way came another burst of cries. Reza swung his head over his shoulder and saw the spectators parting all around. A man bled from the nose and mouth; his breath came and went in trembly bursts. To his left, a tiger had repelled a large crowd all around him, as the cat had started bleeding and panting.

"Yassir!" said Reza. "Tend to the people in proximity. Make sure everyone within three heads of him is taken to the old prison. Everyone who is sick, follow me. A Sarazen needs some sense spoken to him."

Yassir broke out of line and charged into the crowd, and Behrooz leapt onto all fours and swerved between pairs of rushing legs.

By now, Moro had left the roof of the building and now stood on the street. He shouted at his men to keep Reza's army in line, but he quickly fell silent. The men had already blended into the crowd, guiding the sick away. By the time Moro descended the stairs and padded onto the street, eight people stood before him, all bleeding.

"What is this?!" said Moro. "How _dare_ you expose me to these people!"

"What are you afraid of?" said Reza. "If the Red Death is the judgment of Aslan, why should you worry about falling ill?"

Moro turned to his soldiers. "Guards, get me _away_ from these people. NOW!"

"No," said Reza. "You have run away from the truth long enough, Moro. It is time for you to face it." He turned to the crowd. "I have reason to believe the Red Death is not the wrath of Aslan. Two weeks ago, Faraji and his Narnian compatriot discovered a connection between the _balik_ and the Red Death. It seems that the _balik_ carry the disease and pass it on to us. Our own meals become our own undoing."

At once, horror and alarm fell upon their faces. Men and women faced each other and exchanged words of shock, while beasts exchanged similar words amongst themselves. One panther stepped forward (but not too close), and he looked the eight in the face.

"Is that true?" he said. "Did you all eat the _balik_ within the last day?"

Silence fell over the crowd. All eight of the people who stood in the center of the street nodded their heads.

More murmurs filled the air. The soldiers surrounding Moro looked at Reza in shock. Even Moro stood in alarm, his mouth hanging open.

" _Mehan,"_ said one of the soldiers, "there was a ship that pulled into port yesterday. It carried the _balik_ on it. If this is true, we need to confiscate it now—before more of it is sold."

Now all eyes turned to Moro. The cheetah's breath was somewhere between a huff and a growl. His eyes were wide and dashing side to side.

At last, the cheetah turned to the soldiers. "DON'T JUST STAND THERE, YOU FOOLS! FIND IT! _F_ _IND IT—_ AAAAGH!"

An arrow charged from on high and grazed Moro's tail. The cat screeched and burst into a run. Half the soldiers in Moro's charge followed him out of the street, and the rest spread hither and thither. The crowd of onlookers burst every which way, and Reza swung away as his eyes caught something in the corner. A masked man had burst into a run down another street, dropping his bow and arrow. Reza charged with all his might, following the man down every turn. The street had grown empty and desolate when the man tripped on his robes and tumbled along the sett stones. Reza snatched him by the collar of his shirt and ripped the black cloth off his face.

"You tried to assassinate the Sarazen! WHY?!"

The man gritted his teeth in a mix of pride and pain.

Reza shoved him against the wall. "You just tried to murder our sovereign. If you don't want me to strike you dead, you will tell me why you did this."

The man kept shuddering. A line of blood trickled out of his mouth from where a tooth had been. "Go ahead," he said. "Kill me."

Reza stared for a moment, his face wiped of all emotion. With a grunt he snatched the man by the neck and started to twist—

"NO! NO! STOP! I'LL TELL YOU! I'LL TELL YOU...I'll tell you!"

Reza loosed his grip and held the man by the collar of his shirt. "Under what terms?"

"Spare my life..." The man paused, gasping for breath. "And I will tell you...what you want to know..."

A pause. "Anything less than the truth, and your life is mine."

The man jerked his head up and down. "Fine."

He shoved him against the wall again. "Why did you try to kill him?"

"Moro was no use to us anymore," said the man. "Our employers...bribed the Councils to appoint him Sarazen...and my master was angry. He wanted to be Sarazen instead."

"Who brought the _balik_ into Erizad?"

"Salman."

"Is Salman behind everything that's happened?"

A haughty and trembly smile lifted the man's face. "It's not Salman..." He gulped in a breath. "We have his family...Our employer thought Salman would be useful...so we held them hostage...to bring the _balik_ to Erizad...and to turn the vote...the way our employer wanted it."

"Who's your employer?" said Reza. "If Salman isn't behind all this, then who?"

The man kept gathering his breath.

"Who's doing this?"

"I DON'T KNOW! I swear it!"

But the man didn't need to say another word. Reza had started to speak, and just as the words left his mouth, he stepped back. At once, all the dots were connected. He glanced away, and his mouth fell open of its own accord.

* * *

 **Salman gritted** his teeth and bunched a hand into a fist. All around him in the dungeon of Andur, their faces covered in black cloths, stood the leaders of the Order of Aslan.

"I did everything you said," he growled. "I voted for Moro to be the Sarazen—I had to bribe them just to vote for him. Then I brought the ship in to Erizad. We had a deal: I would do my part in exchange for my family. When I returned home, all I saw were stones and dust. Tell me where they are, Rameesh. I want them back _now!"_

Rameesh smiled at him. "What a shame," he said. "I cannot return them to you."

"Why not?"

"Because you failed. Your people are confiscating the _balik."_

"Damn it, Rameesh, that was not my problem! I did what I was told. I brought the _balik_ into Erizad. It was your responsibility to do with it as you pleased. Now uphold your end of the bargain, or I will send my men into this place, and they will show this country what sort of traitors are in their midst!"

"No, my friend," he said in a smooth, low voice. "Your men are dead. Your family is dead. And what a pity—so are you."

Quick as a wink, he pulled the dagger from his coat.

Salman's face turned white and slack with terror as the knife sank beneath his coat. A voiceless rasp broke from his lips. As the knife came out, Salman crumpled backward and landed on the stone floor with a heavy thud.

With a breath, Rameesh wiped the blade with a towel and hid it in its sheath once more. "Ganesh?"

The young man emerged from the shadows. Rameesh started to turn to him, but did a double take as he saw the young man trembling. "W-What is it, my lord?"

"Gather yourself, and act like a man. It is time to finish what we started."

"How?"

"Whether or not we can use the Red Death, this country is ours. Assemble the men. We are disposing of our nameless employer, and we are relieving Moro of his post and his head _._ "

Ganesh fidgeted in place.

"What is the matter with you? Lead these men out of here. We are disposing of our nameless employer—now!"

Just then, something spoke that made Rameesh's face fall. It was a Calormene voice, low and melodious and strong. "You would kill me? _Really?"_

Rameesh spun around, and his eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. Out of the shadows, with the white crystal dangling in his necklace, was Moro.

"I am disappointed in you, Rameesh," said the cheetah. "When I created the Order of Aslan, I had hoped that you would carry out your duties. You were responsible to execute the followers of the Lion and get Reza out of my way. Instead, you kill a handful of Erizadi, and you conspire to kill me."

Rameesh shuddered. "So _you_ have been our nameless employer," he hissed. "All this time…we have been answering to a _beast._ If Mirradin were still alive—"

"He is not, and if Faraji ever returns to this country, I will make him pay for Mirradin's death." He took another step forward for every step Rameesh took backward. "Despite your incompetence, I have what I want. The Erizadi are in my control, and the Order of Aslan will now answer to me."

"Is that all you wanted, you little demon?"

Moro chuckled. "No, Rameesh, I am not put by power alone. This is personal."

"Then let me redeem myself so I can help you in your quest!"

Moro's eyes flicked away for a moment. "Pity," he said. "I cannot seem to trust you now. Then again, that is what happens when one's employees threaten to assassinate their employer. Those who threaten death upon others, usually face death themselves." At that, the white crystal in his necklace began to glow.

"Damn it, Ganesh!" said Rameesh. "Kill him!"

Ganesh backed away, and the rest of the men followed suit.

"What are you all? Women?!" roared Rameesh. "Kill this demon! NOW!"

No one made a move.

Moro smiled up at Rameesh. "Unlike you, they know what magic I can wield. You see, when I was in Narnia during the everlasting winter, Jadis taught me some rather powerful spells. But, of course, any magic could do with a few advancements. Allow me to demonstrate."

"What—NO!"

The gem flashed like a burst of lightning, and Rameesh screamed and froze in place. His skin grew pale, then deep gray, and his voice sank from a shrill cry to the scraping of rocks against each other…and then he was still. Moro turned around and flicked his tail again, and veins of light coursed through the stone. Without warning, the statue burst into a thousand flying fragments as a mighty report thundered in their ears. The men ducked and Moro tilted his head as shards and chunks of rock hurtled past—and when they turned around, all that had stood in Rameesh's footprints was a clump of stone and a flurry of dust.

Moro turned to face the men, who stared at him with terrified eyes and their limbs going all wobbly.

"Well, then," said the cheetah. "We will have to do this another way."

Ganesh shuddered. "H-How, my lord?"

"There is a weapon of great power in this country's arsenal—one that was used in the irrigation projects of yesteryear. With the help of the weapon, we might rain the Red Death upon this land. But, by Tash, do yourselves a favor and don't repeat Rameesh's mistake. I don't think being turned into stone would suit any of you. Now be off with you."

One by one, the men pulled their masks over their faces and, with trembling legs, filed out of the room.

Moro waited until the door was closed until he bowed his head. The rush of magic from him left his head swimming and his legs threatening to quake beneath him. But just as quickly as it vanished, his strength came back, and with his head held high and his tail flicking to and fro, he trotted out of the dungeon.


	13. Across the Winding Arrow

_**The sky** turned purple over his head. The clouds turned black, shrouding the yellow moon behind their cloak. Faraji cried out for the sun to rise, but t_ _he words left his mouth just as the world spun around him. Lightning carved across the clouds; the thunder was like the roar of a great cat. Before them on the moonlit street, a line of men knelt before their own graves._

" _WHAT?!" said Faraji. "No! Please, not again!"_

 _Before him stood the Mareshah, his face twenty years older and his voice twenty years younger. "For your crimes committed against the Man Aslan, these men will die before your eyes."_

" _No,_ mehan! _Please—NO!"_

 _Arrows fell from on high, their tails burning like comets. One by one the men lurched forward, toppling into their graves. Faraji's gaze turned blurry and wet; he heard and felt himself crying, tasting the salty tears on his tongue._

 _"NO!"_

 _Faraji saw the last of the men fall into a grave as f_ _lames burst all around, encompassing the cheetah in a golden crown. Before him stood the greatest of fears—a man dressed in all black, his face covered in a metal mask. He held a spear in his meaty hands; its serrated tip hovered over the cheetah's head._

 _"My lord...have mercy..."_

 _"MERCY?!" The voice was like a screaming eagle and scraping rocks. "I AM ASLAN!"_

 _A surge of pain cracked across his skull as the spear plunged into his head—_

* * *

 **Faraji woke** with a cry.

He scrambled to all fours and swung his head to and fro. His limbs prickled and trembled, as if lightning had coursed through them. His heart banged against his muscled chest, which was wet with sweat. He looked up and down the gully, but no man of any sort was there. His mouth hung open, gathering the sweet air of the desert night. A moon frowned over his head and bathed the steep sides of the gully in a wan light.

"Spotted one?" The horse was lying on the other side of the gully. "Are you all right?"

A moment's silence filled the air. To his left, his parents and sister and the Tarkheena were coming to, staring at him with their wide eyes. Saheeb and Zareenah let out sighs with the slightest hint of a growl, but Lasaraleen and Nazeen stared at him in worry.

Faraji sighed and shook the sand away, and he padded over to Philip. The horse lay on the other side of the gully, a courtesy for all, since the large beast had a propensity to snore. Now, the horse was wide awake, and a great glassy eye shone in the low moonlight.

"Was it another nightmare?"

Faraji gave a slow nod. "It was worse than the last one." As he lowered himself onto his haunches, his breath trembled, and he sniffled softly. "When you first met my master, what was your impression of him?"

Philip nickered. "Considering that he shot an arrow at you, I would think him capable of execution."

Faraji nodded. "He is. When I first arrived in Erizad, that was the first thing I saw. He wanted to make me his _jamira,_ but I would not go willingly...so he had to break my will. He took me to the outskirts of Palár—he had already ordered three prisoners to dig their own graves—and when I arrived…he and his men put them to death. I saw them, Narnian! I saw the men crumpling into their own graves!"

Philip's mouth fell open. "By the Lion…"

"But that wasn't the worst of it. He told me that if I disobeyed him, I would be _fortunate_ to receive such a fate. He said that if I ever committed a capital offense, he would _pray_ for Aslan to kill me."

The horse was silent.

"Narnian, I don't know if I can go through with this. How can I risk going to Narnia when the real Aslan might very well kill me?"

"Spotted one, these are only dreams, with no ounce of truth to them. But you won't believe me unless you see the Lion with your own eyes."

Faraji sobbed and swung away.

"Spotted one, be still!" said Philip. "I know you're frightened, but I implore you to believe me. There is nothing to be afraid of—I swear it. He doesn't want to kill you. He wants to forgive you and put all to right. For now, you have to do the hard thing and face your fears—not to overcome them, but to convince yourself that they are not real."

"Do you truly believe they are lies?"

"On my honor."

Faraji shook his head. "Well, if your Aslan is so concerned about me, why does he not visit me _now?"_

Philip was still. "I don't know," he said in his softest voice yet. "I know this: The best thing to do is complete the journey—and do it with all the courage you have in you."

"Why? What good will it do?"

Philip gave a soft neigh. "Why, you would meet the true Aslan. Nothing would compare with that. And I will tell you something else: This journey may help more than just you. In the halls of Cair Paravel, there may be medicine for your people."

At that, Faraji's head darted up. "Are you certain?"

"I am not merely certain—I know this for a fact. Queen Lucy owns a cordial filled with the most powerful of medicines. It has the power to heal any wound, even pull someone from the edge of death. I know that a wound and a disease are two different things, but the cordial may not make a distinction. What if this is the purpose of your journey—to acquire this medicine and stop the Red Death from spreading?"

"Then I must go on," said the cheetah. "I cannot very well give in to my fears now—not when I might be able to help my people. If I must work for the medicine—"

"Work for it? Spotted one, this is one of those times when you need to stop being proper. This is not about charity. Your people are facing a national emergency. Saving their lives will be more important than paying off a debt. And as someone who witnessed the outbreak in Rasul, I can persuade my master of the rightness of your quest. They will give it to you—I will see to it."

Faraji sniffled again, and a smile lifted his teary face. It looked rather miserable, as it was halfway between a deep sob and a light chuckle, but of all the faces Philip had seen on the cat's face, it was the warmest and kindest he had yet seen. "You...You would do that...for _me?"_

"Of course I would. And I will not hear any more jaw about your mistakes. Anything that has passed between us is done and forgotten. As far as I'm concerned, you and I are friends."

At that, a sob broke through, but a joyful one. Faraji bowed his head and ducked away (it was not proper for an Erizadi to show such emotion before anyone less than family). When he lifted his head, strength filled his face. "When we first met, I was cold and callous toward you. My people had taught me to fear and hate Narnians. Well, they were wrong, as they have been wrong about a great many things. You have been kinder to me than ever I deserved, and I could not think of anyone better to join me in this quest."

Philip bowed his head and gave a soft whinny. "Well, I daresay I could not find a warrior more powerful or courageous than you. I have seen many a great battle in my life, but what you did in Tashbaan was beyond my imagination. The centaurs of Narnia could learn some tricks from you. And whether you admit it or not, Faraji, what you are doing now is a demonstration of your courage. There is a kind of courage that fights the enemies before you—obviously, you have that—but there is another courage that is needed to face the nightmares of your life, to face the unknown and the misunderstood. You think yourself a coward, but I do not. Whatever our fears are, we are courageous if we face them...just as you are."

Faraji blinked the tears out of his eyes. His words were soft and trembly as they left his smiling face. "Thank you, Philip."

This time, it was the horse's turn to smile.

* * *

 **The party** had left before first light. Saheeb and Zareenah complained about having too little sleep (thanks to Faraji crying out in the middle of the night), while Nazeen kept any words to herself. Lasaraleen said she had just become used to sleeping in the middle of the desert, though five hours of sleep was hardly enough. As for Faraji and Philip, the two had merrily trotted along down the gully. Lasaraleen and the rest of Faraji's family had not kept up with them, but the two hadn't taken any notice.

"Whinny-inny!" said Philip. "I must know more about your government, spotted one. Why do your people need so many leaders? We Narnians do well with two Kings and Queens."

"And _that_ is what I find confusing," said Faraji with a laugh. "Why not just call them Kings and Queens? What sense is there in letting the eldest of them be the High King? Wouldn't they all do well with equal authority?"

"A country needs a High King in the way a body needs a head. Someone has to make sure the rest operate as a unit; otherwise, nothing would get done. Besides, _you're_ one to talk about confusion," said Philip with a neigh. "Your government consists of Mareshahs, Hafas, a Marehafa, and a Sarazen—oh, and that's not even counting the _jamiras._ You could spend all day trying to explain it to someone. And you still haven't told me why you need so many leaders. It seems to me that the more laws and lawmakers you have, you have even more ways to get into trouble."

Faraji chuckled. "Quite! It is a burden, indeed, but a necessary one. When Erizad was founded five hundred years ago, we were hardly of a single mind. There were more than a dozen tribes, all of whom wanted power and control. Instead of vesting all authority in the hands of a single man, the first Sarazen chose soldiers and lawmakers from each of the seventeen tribes—to ensure that everyone was represented and defended. These representatives became the first Hafas, or lawmakers—and the soldiers became the first Mareshahs."

"How does a fellow become the Sarazen? I can't imagine one would get it for the asking."

"Not at all," said Faraji through a smile. "The crown was supposed to be a birthright—passed down from the Sarazen to his oldest living progeny. It didn't always go as planned: Many Sarazens and their heirs have been either killed in battle or deemed incompetent to lead."

"Did Mustafa have any children?"

"None that are alive today. His only surviving progeny is his grandson, Hussein."

"Well, I hope he's a decent fellow."

"'Decent'? Hardly! The man was expelled from university for inferior academic performance. The only reason he became a soldier is that Mustafa forced him into it. If he could leave Erizad, he would take his two mistresses to some desolate island and never be heard from again. Trust me, Philip—the Assembly would never appoint him to be the Sarazen. They would look for just about _anyone_ to replace him."

"They can do that?"

"Indeed. Chapter XII, Section 2 of the Code of Aslan allows them to appoint another man."

"Politics upon politics," said Philip. "I do find it fascinating, but I still wonder what good could come from such complexity."

"Those laws were written for a reason: to protect our people. Mine is a rebellious and stubborn nation, and its ancestors were no better."

"Even with all the laws you have, they _still_ rebel? I daresay, if your laws cannot keep people safe and happy, you should wonder if your laws are to blame."

"What? Surely you must be joking. Laws do not keep people safe and happy—they keep them in line. That is what the Man Aslan expects of us. Wasn't it your Aslan who said, 'The law is the highest of virtues'?"

Philip's mouth fell. "Whinny-inny! He never said such a thing. And how is it that your people came to think of Aslan as a man?"

"That I do not know. And I will thank you not to sneer."

"Ignorance is not a curse, unless it be willful—and in that case, the curse is self-inflicted. Your people have lived in willful ignorance of the truth for many years—that is the only explanation. The whole world knows he is a Lion—"

"Yes, the Lion who inspired High King Peter to say: 'Power and wrath are the sword and mace of kings.' And was it not his wife, Queen Susan, who said, 'Power is what makes a woman kneel before her masters'?"

"What? Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA! For one thing, she said no such thing. For another, Queen Susan is not his wife—she is his sister!"

Philip chuckled to himself as Faraji glared straight ahead. "My mistake."

"Whinny-inny...I beg your pardon, Faraji, but you do have the most amusing ideas. In fact, the more you speak of Narnia—whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-ha!"

"You would do well to humble yourself, especially since it is _you_ who may be mistaken. My people are a prosperous and solemn nation, filled with philosophers and thinkers of great stature. We know whereof we speak—"

"Obviously, you don't!"

"And when our laws are obeyed, they produce a grave and thoughtful race, one that has produced some of the finest minds in the—Confound it, Philip, don't start laughing!"

Philip's cheeks bulged. The laugh was trapped inside. After a pause, he swallowed it and lifted his head, pouring all his effort into his merry trot. "Well, then, perhaps they have it right. Perhaps it _is_ good for them to execute people for misdemeanors."

Faraji was silent.

"Come now, spotted one—even _you_ think that is absurd. But I also know that you cannot say what you really think. If you did, it would be tantamount to denying your people."

Faraji's face had fallen into a scowl, but he dared not lift his head. "As one of our poets once said, 'It is better to be grave and sober than to be a happy drunk.'"

"Oh, I daresay you can be happy _and_ sober. Why, if you threw out the Code of Aslan and lived by the ways of the Lion, you would learn how to do that very thing."

The cheetah scoffed. "Right. And I suppose if we did that, we might become the Narnia of the Far South. And then we might end up as you did—with two kings and two queens stolen from Calormen."

Philip's jaw fell. "I beg your pardon?"

"...What?"

"Is that what you were taught? That my masters were kidnapped from Calormen?"

Faraji gawked at him.

"Am I to understand that King Peter, King Edmund, Queen Susan, and Queen Lucy were kidnapped from Calormen?"

"...Yes, and it was by Aslan himself. Surely you would agree to that."

Philip threw back his head. "WHINNY-INNY-HOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA!"

Faraji sighed. "I suppose not."

"Whinny-inny! My master is not Calormen. If he is, then that makes me—whinny-inny—that makes me a _potato!_ WHINNY-INNY-HOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA!"

Faraji glared at him. "I will thank you not to laugh."

"WHINNY-INNY-HOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA!"

"ALL RIGHT! ENOUGH!"

"Whinny-inny!—I cry your pardon, but your people have the most amusing stories! When we first met, you told me Aslan was a man. What's more, you had no concept of a Lion. Two days ago, you told me the White Witch was an agent of Aslan. And now—whinny-inny—I find out my sovereign might be a Calormene, forced to take the throne against his will?"

Faraji huffed. "Someday, you will demonstrate your ignorance, and I will be the one to laugh."

"Oh, perhaps, but not today." Philip chuckled and shook his mane, and he continued his merry trot. "Kidnapped by Aslan. Whinny-inny!"

Faraji rolled his eyes—and without warning, his heart went into his throat. Saheeb had cantered up to him, matching him step for step. Faraji started to tense, but Saheeb's face was emotionless and calm. "You seem to have made a new friend."

Faraji nodded. "Proud and verbose he may be, but he is better than I ever deserved." He turned to Saheeb. "What? Do you think I have ignored you completely?"

Saheeb sighed. "That is not the point," he said heavily. "Haroshta, you do not need to go any further north. We can escort Philip back to his master."

"Father, I thought we had settled this. I will give him a hero's escort to his master—I owe him that."

"By Tash," said Saheeb. "Have you forgotten the threat against your people? Mirradin's employers will not simply wait for you to return to Erizad. They will strike as soon as they have the power."

"We sent Reza a letter. We've warned them of what's coming."

"But your people have mercenaries in their midst. If they intercept the letter before it reaches your master, your letter won't be any good. You need to turn around and go back to Erizad now—if only so your people can be warned."

Faraji paused. "Why are you so eager to send me away?"

Saheeb looked at him quizzically. "What are you talking about?"

"We have not spoken in twelve years. Far as you were concerned, I was dead. Now we are all together, and the first thing you want to do is send me back to Erizad. All I want to know is why."

Saheeb gave a sad chuckle. "Haroshta, you know how difficult this is—"

But Faraji gave it no reply. He swung around, looking Saheeb straight in the face. "This is not about the twelve years that passed between us. What is it, Father? And I want the truth."

Saheeb lost all pretense of sadness, and his face grew dark and stern. "I think you know."

Faraji's eyes grew glossy, and he blinked back tears. A wave of sorrow and grief threatened to crash over him, but he drew in a trembly breath and regained himself. "Yes...I know. But as long as I am this far North, I have to make amends."

"These are not the people with whom you can make amends," whispered Saheeb. "Their Kings and Queens are full of power and wrath, always looking for an excuse to use it. And the demon of Narnia—he has done things in the twelve years since you were gone."

"What kinds of things?"

Saheeb shook his head. "It is better if you don't know. Many have died miserable deaths in the clutches of this so-called Lion. And those who survive…they are unrecognizable. I implore you, Haroshta: Do not prolong this journey. Simply leave us at the Gates of Archenland, and leave—just so I know you will be safe."

"But Father, I need medicine for my people. If the Narnians are willing to give it to me—"

"I will personally send a courier to deliver it to you. Please, Haroshta—I beg you to leave. Do not trouble your mother or your sister with the horrors of a Narnian trial. What the Narnians might do to you if their eyes fell upon you—your mother and sister would never recover."

The words went into Faraji's ears, but they went unanswered. The cat was still as a statue, his mouth agape and his tail frozen midway through a curl. "Father…I promised to return Philip…I cannot just—"

"Please, Haroshta…promise me that you will consider it—for our sakes."

Without warning, their ears swiveled. "Whinny-inny!" said Philip. His voice was like an echo, his muscular bulk a speck in the gully. "Do not dawdle, spotted ones. It's Narnia and the North!"

Saheeb gathered his voice. "Forgive us, my friend! We are on the move." As he swung back to Faraji, his face grew severe again. "Please…"

Faraji gave no reply. Inch by inch, he lifted himself onto his trembling legs. As his father's trot rose to a canter, Faraji took every step with all the care of an old man, making sure his legs would not crumple under him.

* * *

 ** **The sun**** lifted its cheery face over the limb of the earth as all made their way out of the gully. Before them stood the hills, shining in hues of golden light, with their great and noble heads crowned by trees. Saheeb and Zareenah padded along solemnly, while Nazeen quickened her pace. Lasaraleen smiled along with her and stared at the Winding Arrow, a great white ribbon tumbling left to right.

"Ah, the North," said the horse. "The happy and green North!"

Nazeen smiled and flicked her tail. At her sides, Saheeb and Zareenah glowered at it. Lasaraleen showed a half-hearted smile (her interest was the people and all the royal parties). Faraji sat on his haunches, staring at the towering trunks.

"Spotted one?"

It took a moment to reach his ears, and he aimed his fear-filled face up at the horse.

"Faraji, what is wrong?"

The cheetah let out a shudder. "My people said that the gates to Aslan's courtyard were guarded by great trees. It was through those trunks that captives would be led away to be tortured in the ever-after, never to return to the world of the living."

Saheeb rolled his eyes. "More nonsense. Haroshta, you have come far enough. I think it is time for you to say your farewells."

Philip swung to Saheeb. "I beg your pardon?"

Nazeen swung to face him. "Father, we have not even arrived in Anvard. You cannot just send Haroshta away."

"You know he has his duties."

"His duties are in the North!" said Philip. "Your son is on an errand of the utmost importance. My people might have medicine that can cure the Red Death."

"Then we will send a hawk or an eagle to deliver it! Haroshta, you need to leave now."

"Why are you trying to send him away?" said the horse, stomping a hoof. "Confound it, man! Ever since we left Tashbaan, you have barely deigned to give your son any attention. He has been suffering from nightmares, and not once did you care enough to hear them. He has spoken with me at length about the horrors of his life in Erizad, and you and your wife didn't think it worth your while to listen. What is happening here? What are you not telling us?"

Saheeb's voice dropped to a whisper. "Haroshta, don't listen to him. You don't need to be here. You can escape and avoid Aslan while you still have the chance."

"Whinny-inny!" said Philip. "Escape from what?"

"Father, what are you talking about?" said Nazeen.

"That is not your concern."

"You kept your royal line from me," said Lasaraleen. "You owe us an explanation."

"I don't owe you anything!" hissed Saheeb, batting a paw against the ground. "Let my son go back to Erizad _now._ "

"But Father," said Nazeen, "we just got him back. Why do you want to send him away?"

Saheeb started to reply, but the voices overlapped and joined in the clamor—until Philip neighed and stomped his hoof, and all was still. "This is not getting us anywhere," he said. "Faraji, this is your choice. What do you want to do?"

But the cheetah gave no reply. He was still and silent, gazing blankly at the trees across the river, when without warning, he felt his heart leap into his throat. He rose to all fours, and his voice broke like a bugle. "SOLDIERS!"

Philip's ears swiveled, and the cheetahs turned at once. Lasaraleen gasped and Philip neighed in fright. Faraji's mouth fell as a ring of horsemen burst across the river; water sprayed into the air and tack jangled, and the steeds surrounded the hill like the peaks of a crown. All held bows and arrows in their hands, and the arrows were aimed at Faraji. A man pulled back the visor of his helmet, then his whole helmet, revealing a curtain of blond hair and an aghast bearded face.

"Philip?"

The horse whickered. "Bergan?"

"Where have you been? By the Lion, we thought you had been killed!"

"I was in Calormen and Erizad. Now would you care to explain this? I daresay we are not being escorted to the royal ball."

"It is not you with whom we have our quarrel," said Bergan. "Are you aware that you are traveling with a Calormene warrior?"

"What? There are no Calormene warriors in this group."

Bergan pointed at Faraji. "Have you forgotten that a cheetah was responsible for killing eighty of our people thirteen years ago? He was Beresh, the prince of the Talking Beasts of Calormen."

Philip's mouth fell. "This isn't Beresh. Good sir, I assure you that you are mistaken!"

Bergan ignored him and nocked an arrow, aiming its tip at Faraji's forehead. "I know you. I know what you did."

 _"Mehan,_ I know there is a resemblance between me and Beresh, but I am not he! My brother had a scar above his left paw—I don't!"

Bergan glanced at the spotted foreleg, then scoffed. "Who _are_ you?"

A pause. Saheeb shot a glare of warning at Faraji, but Faraji ignored it. "Until twelve years ago, I was Haroshta—crown prince of the Talking Beasts of Calormen. These are my parents, Saheeb and Zareenah, and my sister, Nazeen. And this is Lasaraleen Tarkheena, friend of Aravis and the caretakers of my family. I am bringing them here to settle them into their new home, and then to Narnia to return Philip to his master."

Bergan nodded. "Then who was Beresh?"

A sad sigh, then—"My brother."

Philip turned to Saheeb. "Your _other_ son killed all those people?" _  
_

The cheetah king growled at him. "This is why I did not tell you before."

"Because you knew I would charge you with complicity in a massacre."

"We were not complicit! Beresh was rebellious and insolent. He hated Haroshta for being first in line; more than once, he tried prove he was worthy to take the crown. But, by Tash, I promise you he acted of his own accord. Whatever he did in the North, my queen and I had no part in it."

"We'll see about that," said Bergan. "I did not come here to dispense justice. That matter is above my station. My duty is to escort you to Anvard and place the cheetahs in custody."

"For how long?"

"Until our sovereigns arrive at Anvard later today."

Faraji shuddered. "The Kings and Queens are _here?"_

"Oh, how delightful!" said Lasaraleen. "Pray tell, my good man—is Aravis with them?"

Bergan raised an eyebrow. "You know Aravis?"

"Know her? She and I were the best of friends. Oh, she will be _so_ happy to see me—but she will be horrified to learn of my misadventures."

"It is a pity about the timing, milady. I believe she is at the castle now, preparing for a luncheon with some of the noblemen's daughters."

"Oh, it is just as well. What is but one luncheon missed? When I am settled in, she and I will host as many as we like."

A smile of amusement flicked up Bergan's face. "I wouldn't prepare for them yet. You and the cheetahs will need to be questioned. Given their history as the cheetah monarchy of Calormen, I cannot let them go North on their own." He turned to the cheetahs. "By the authority vested in me by the Lion Aslan and by King Lune, I am placing you in custody, after which you will stand before the sovereigns of the North. I will ask you to consider yourselves warned, as any attempt to leave our custody will be answered with force."

With that, Bergan ordered his horse, and his steed turned about. The ring of troops clopped forward, their hooves splashing in the shallow water. The cheetahs wove through the ripples, the stones scraping beneath their feet. Amid the trickling of water and scraping of rocks, and the jangling of horses' tack, little else could be heard. Faraji flinched when he felt Saheeb whisper into his ear:

"One word against me or your mother...and I will ruin you."

Faraji turned and glared at Saheeb. The cheetah king turned away, making it clear he had nothing else to say, and all stepped onto the upper bank of the Winding Arrow and crossed into the North.


	14. What Happened Before Dinner

_**A/n:** Like so many prior chapters, this one_ _was a learning experience. I have never written a scene with the Pevensies in it, and I kept tiptoeing around it until I finally gave in and wrote it. All the way through, I worried I couldn't capture their personalities or their voices. Even though I've seen the 2005 movie and read the books (and listened to the audio versions a half a dozen times or so), I still felt like the worst Narnia writer ever for not making the main characters of the books sound authentic._

 _Hey! At least I tried. Whether or not I pulled it off, I hope you enjoy the chapter._

* * *

 **The noon sun** poked its head around a towering pillar of cloud as men and beast panted to a stop. Sweat had broken out across their heads and soaked the shirts of the men. All around them, clouds had bubbled into the high sky, and their anvils had started to spread over their heads. Philip sniffed the air and said something about a devilish storm, but Faraji heard none of it. He was too busy feeling his heart pound. The pointed turrets of Anvard had risen over the hills, and the closer he came, the bigger Anvard grew. Every step closer to the castle was another step closer to whatever awaited him.

Nothing broke him out of his trance except the jingling of tack and the sight of Bergan swinging himself out of the saddle. The man said they were stopping there to water the horses, as a clear, cool stream rippled before them. Saheeb and Zareenah kept aiming their innocent eyes up at the guards, then lowered their heads to show all the sadness they could; Faraji seethed with resentment at them as they all lapped at the water. Nazeen kept sharing Faraji's looks of worry, but she said nothing of it.

Few words were exchanged the rest of the way. To their left, the sun began its voyage to the horizon, and the shadows grew long as the castle drew nearer. Even as the sun fell behind a thundercloud, the heat grew thick enough to take your breath out of your chest, and no one doubted that a great storm would march on Anvard that night.

Half the sky had grown dark with thunderheads, and lightning danced and whipped across the vaulted clouds as the party approached the gates of Anvard. The taste of rain lingered in the air, and the wind started to kick the dust up off the dirt roads. All around them, men and their animals gathered to greet King Lune and Prince Cor and the Kings and Queens of Narnia. But as Philip and Faraji came into view, some murmured their surprise at the sight of Philip, and while Faraji couldn't make out all the words that were spoken, he heard the horse's name.

At once, a terrible notion took shape in Faraji's head. He turned toward Saheeb and said, "It was you, wasn't it? You told them Philip was dead."

Saheeb gave no reply.

"What—did you send them one of your _letters?"_

"I had to make certain the Narnians wouldn't go looking for their horse."

"And when do you expect to tell them this?"

"Never, because it's none of their concern. You're giving them back their precious steed—that's all that matters."

Faraji growled at him. "If you won't tell them, _I_ will."

"Fine," said Saheeb. "Go ahead and endanger our future. Endanger Nazeen's future. Go ahead and be the one who informs on his own family, sentencing them to a life of imprisonment. But I warned you: If you endanger our future, I will endanger yours. And if I do, you should be grateful. Aslan will not tolerate those who betray their families any more than I do."

"The real Aslan would not let me tell a lie."

"Tell yourself that if it comforts you, Haroshta, but you can't run from the truth. Aslan punishes all who betray their families. The last Calormene who did that was so disfigured that his family couldn't give him a decent burial."

Faraji chuckled nervously. "I don't believe you."

But if you had seen his face, you would know that he did believe it. His eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open with fear.

* * *

 **The** **evening sun** poked through a crack in the towering clouds, and the red stone walls of Anvard glowed orange in the golden light. Over their heads, the flags on each turret danced and snapped in the gale. Straight ahead, a great archway yawned, and a trellis-like iron gate stood in its mouth.

Faraji's heart sped up as he peeked through the horses' legs; if there was a Lion—and he still didn't know what a Lion looked like—it wasn't there. Still, the cheetah tensed and fidgeted. Anyone might meet him by now. Part of him wished lightning would leap from on high and spare him the dread of having to meet his fate, but he thought better of it.

The ring of horses broke, and the two leading steeds trotted aside. The gate rose up, and the brightly colored figures hidden behind the metal bars were now in full view. All wore robes and tunics of deep red and green, with thin, bright crowns upon their heads. The blond-headed man had a beard and mustache, and a barrel chest and a broad smile. The black-haired man was clean-shaven, with bright wide eyes and a kind face that also lifted in a smile. The woman with wavy black hair that fell past her shoulders was in the middle of a laugh with her sister, whose red hair draped down far below her shoulders, and whose face was the kindest and prettiest Faraji had ever seen. In their midst, on a great black charger, sat a fat and jolly king, adorned in a bright apple-green robe with legs that fitted his large calves. His voice rang out like a great horn. Beside him on a spotted white steed was a boy of thirteen or fourteen; his head was uncovered, his long blond hair tossed to and fro by the breeze.

Faraji did not need any historian of Narnia to tell them who they were. They were none other than King Peter, King Edmund, Queen Susan, and Queen Lucy of Narnia, and King Lune and Prince Cor of Archenland. And when the gate had gone up, the Kings and Queens of Narnia and the North suddenly became very eager, then very solemn. All knew the horse who stood before them, and Edmund looked as though he were about to cry. Philip sniffled, but he regained himself and bent a knobbly leg, bowing very low and kneeling in the way all Narnian horses do. And when he arose, he said nothing. He basked in the glow of all that lay around him—all his brothers, the horses he had rescued from Calormen, and now his own King.

"My friend," said Edmund, his voice almost a whisper, "I have wronged you. I should never have sent you to Calormen alone."

"Sire, it was no accident," said the horse. "Though I was sent to Erizad under false pretenses, I have seen great good come from it. We have rescued slaves from Calormen, and—"

"Erizad?" said Peter. "By the Lion, what were you doing so far away?"

"I have much to explain, my King, but first, I must introduce you to my travelers. This is Lasaraleen Tarkheena, wife of the late Mirradin Tarkaan, and a good friend of Bree and Hwin. In fact, she is a good friend of one of our friends, the Tarkheena—"

On cue, Lasaraleen shouted: "Aravis!"

In reply, a high female voice rang out from the other side of the courtyard: "Lasaraleen?"

Silence fell over them all, and the horses began to part. The young woman that everyone once knew as a Tarkheena was now dressed in the red and gold robes of an Archenlander princess. Her head was uncovered, her black hair waving freely about her head, and her mouth cupped by a hand. Her face started to crumple as she marched across the courtyard, and Lasaraleen followed suit, barely able to hold back her tears. And as they fell into one another's arms, they wept without a care.

"You poor, dear girl," said Aravis. "What happened? What are you doing here?"

"Oh, Aravis, it has all gone wrong. That man I wanted to marry—the one who bought me the cheetahs—he was a traitor and a murderer." Aravis gasped, but Lasaraleen went on. "Did you hear about what happened in Rasul?"

"Oh, those poor people—and that disease. You mean—"

Lasaraleen nodded and sniffled. "He did it. He killed them all. Oh, Aravis, I married a _murderer!_ "

"Oh, you poor dear…" And their breaths fell into sobs as they hugged again. "Oh, Lasaraleen, come. We have so much catching up to do."

"O dear friend, I can't—not yet. My husband's employers want to release the blood fever all over Erizad. The Narnians might be willing to send medicine, but they won't if they don't believe Faraji's story."

"Then we must make haste," said Aravis.

"Indeed," said Philip. "Let us put this matter to rest so we can attend to a more pleasant matter—namely, supper. Faraji! Come and—"

A pause. Philip glanced about the courtyard. "Where is he?"

One of the guards caught his attention. "Right here, Philip," said the black-haired man. "I did not realize it until now, but Faraji was standing directly behind me." The man stepped aside, showing the frightened cheetah sitting on all fours.

"Spotted one," said Philip, "what are you doing? Come and meet my people—"

At once, Queen Susan held her hands to her mouth and gasped. Her face went pale with horror. Faraji responded with equal horror: His mouth hung open, and tears started to fill his eyes.

"What is it?" said King Edmund. "My fair sister, what is the matter?"

She lifted a trembling hand and pointed a finger at Faraji. "It's Beresh."

Peter's face fell. "What?"

Prince Cor tilted his head. "Father, who is Beresh?"

"I should know who that is," he said. "He killed your mother just after you were born."

At once the air filled with the scraping of swords out of their sheaths and the nocking of arrows against their groaning bowstrings. An archer flicked his eyes toward King Lune. "With your permission, Sire, I would like to finish him off."

"Wait a minute!" said Edmund. "First of all, why would Beresh let anyone escort him? We know he was capable of killing twenty men and horse without any help; if this were Beresh, he would not have let himself be treated like a captive. Secondly, why would he act like a prisoner? The real Beresh would have no interest in making amends. Most importantly, he is not even alive to answer for what he's done. He was killed when the Erizadi invaded Tehishbaan twelve years ago."

Lune turned to the cheetahs. "Is that true?"

Saheeb nodded. "My King, I know you have no reason to trust us. After all, my son was guilty of heinous acts against your people. But I swear by the Lion you serve that I had no part in any of his misdeeds. That is why my queen and I have brought from Calormen a token of our esteem, in the hope that you would think of us as friends."

Faraji's face fell. He turned to Nazeen and whispered, "What gift?"

Nazeen shook her head. "I don't know," she whispered. "Father, what are you talking about?"

"Hush!" said Zareenah. "Your father is in the middle of negotiations. Do not interrupt."

Saheeb didn't seem to notice it. Instead, he turned to King Lune with something of a smile on his face. "My lord, I only hope that I can have the honor of calling you my king. I hereby renounce all my allegiance to Calormen, as it was a nation that once kept me and my family as slaves. Calormen has turned its back on me, and now I turn my back on Calormen. Therefore, what more is there to say, but: To Narnia and the North!"

Faraji glowered at him. _You lie._

"Your allegiance is heartening," said Lune in a dull voice, "but that still does not answer the question: If this cheetah is not Beresh, then who is he?"

Peter let out a heavy breath. "I think I know," he said, aiming his hard gaze at Faraji. "You're his brother, aren't you? Haroshta?"

Faraji blinked the tears out of his eyes. "Yes, _mehan_."

Another wave of complaints broke across the courtyard. "He's still a monster, by any other name," said one of the archers. "Let's finish him off!"

"Stand down!" said King Lune. "It seems there is a long story to be told, and we might as well hear the end of it. Bergan, you and your men will take the cheetahs to the western hall. Philip, Lasaraleen, you will join us. The rest of you will prepare for the evening feast. Whatever it is that the cheetahs have brought to Anvard, I want a complete inspection of it. It will not do to have any of our Kings and Queens falling over dead because of something in their wine."

"Yes, Your Highness," said Bergan. With a nod, he spun on his heel, and his men filed into two long columns, with Faraji and the rest of the cheetahs walking in between.

* * *

 **Peter laid** the letter back onto the silver tray. A sad smile tugged at his beard. As he proceeded to the other letter, he shook his head in wonderment. "No wonder you were convinced," he said to Philip. "It looks exactly like my handwriting, and the cause is certainly noble enough for a Narnian. If I had heard about Reza's son, I might have indeed sent you to Erizad."

A moment's silence passed. The only sound in the stone hall was rain pouring outside the open windows. Thunder boomed and rattled the walls when a flash came too close, but neither man nor beast spoke.

The western hall felt like Aslan Hall at Andur—no decor, no paintings, nothing but stone walls and flickering candles. It felt more like a dungeon that sat above ground than a hall where court was conducted. The Kings and Queens sat on stone thrones that backed up to the far wall, with King Lune sitting on the highest throne, and the Kings of Narnia to his left and the Queens to his right.

Lucy turned to Saheeb. "You could have told us all this and spoken like honest friends," she said. "Why would you deceive Philip and Faraji?"

"Milady, I had no choice. My family was in danger—I dared not do anything that might expose them. If your people had been involved, you might have endangered our lives."

Susan finally spoke. All the while, she had been glowering at Faraji, making the cheetah balk at her angry gaze. Now, she aimed her eyes elsewhere as she said, "Why would you bring your son to the North?"

"They didn't," said Philip. "Your Majesty, he brought himself here of his own accord. In fact, he had opportunities to leave for Erizad, but he refused. He wanted to ensure that his family would arrive here safely, and more urgently, he needs to ask you a great favor."

Susan looked nonplussed. Instead, her face seemed to darken in reply.

Faraji stepped forward, looking Lucy in the face. " _Meha,_ is it true that you have a medicine of extraordinary power?"

Lucy nodded. "Indeed, though it is presently at Cair Paravel."

Faraji sighed in relief. "I have no right to ask of you, but I cry your help. My people are in danger. Calormenes are about to release the Red Death across Erizad, and your cordial may be the only antidote in the world. If you would deliver it to Erizad, I would personally serve you and your people to repay the debt."

Lucy opened her mouth to reply, but Peter saw what she was going to say. "Faraji, we don't know anything about this illness. We don't know if Her Highness's cordial would have any effect; as we have come to learn, there are some injuries and illnesses it cannot heal. Moreover, the potion is difficult to come by. Because of its power and scarcity, it is to be used in the gravest of emergencies. Should another war break out, we may have to use it to treat the wounded."

"I realize that, _mehan,_ but I have nowhere else to turn. The Red Death does not respond to any of my people's medicines. Unless Aslan deigns to help my people, Narnia is my only hope."

Edmund nodded. "Philip, can you testify to this?"

"Yes, Your Highness. The day after we set off for Narnia, the disease broke out in Rasul. Over a hundred men and beasts fell ill within a matter of hours, and Faraji was one of only six survivors." Murmurs of surprise and alarm filled the hall, but Philip carried on. "Later, when we were in Tashbaan, he found the man who carried out the attack. The man confessed not only to the crime but to his involvement in a much greater conspiracy. In fact, this man would have disposed of all of us if Faraji hadn't saved our lives."

Edmund turned to Faraji. The king showed a hint of a smile, which made Faraji feel at ease. "It seems we owe you a debt of gratitude," he said.

"Not as much as I owe Philip," said Faraji. "He was brave enough to go upstream and find the infected body. My people were too frightened to even consider it, but Philip and a brave young man named Tarin Araz went into Calormen. If it hadn't been for them, the disease would have spread even further."

Peter leaned forward. "But who was this man who tried to kill you?"

Lasaraleen stepped forward. "It was my husband, Mirradin. He thought that the Tisroc's alliances with Narnia and the North were a disgrace. He took it upon himself to restore Calormen to her former glory, to wage war against Erizad and make his own name a terror to the world."

"And what do your cheetahs have to do with this?"

"Mirradin bought them and made them his slaves. I tried to rescue them, but Mirradin threatened to kill us all if we left him."

Saheeb's head hung low, as if from fatigue. He blinked his one eye. "Your Majesty, I was desperate to save my family. Mirradin was hurting my wife and daughter, and he was hurting his own wife. She did everything she could to protect us, but he would not have it. I sent letters to the Erizadi, asking them to send Haroshta back to us, and no one answered. I did not intend to deceive your horse, and I did not intend to deceive you. But we were desperate—we had to do something. All we want now is to live out the rest of our days in peace."

Faraji glared at Saheeb. The old cheetah's emotions seemed to come forth with great effort, and the kings and queens were looking at him with pity. But King Lune was the only one who showed no trace of concern.

"You say you have nothing against us," he said in a low voice. "But are you telling us the truth?"

Saheeb's face fell. "What do you mean, my lord?"

"Do you deny that your son is Beresh?"

"No, my lord."

"Do you deny that Beresh committed capital crimes against Narnia and the North?"

"No, my lord."

"Why would your son do these things? No Tarkaan would deign to take him into battle, and no Tisroc, either. Who is responsible for what Beresh has done?"

All eyes turned to Saheeb and Zareenah. Faraji waited for an explanation. He longed for them to speak their piece and be done, but no answer came.

Saheeb gave a pitiful mew. "My lord, Beresh was a murderer and a torturer. He was a rebellious and insolent son; he did whatever he could of his own accord. I told him and Haroshta to guard our northern border, but Beresh seemingly did much more than that. If his orders came from anyone other than himself, they never came from me or his mother."

And without warning, Faraji felt the words fly past his lips. "YOU LIE!"

The court murmured and exchanged glances. Philip nickered and said, "Spotted one?"

Faraji didn't hear it. "I have covered for you long enough, and I cannot go on. You can continue this façade, but you are not fooling me. The truth is coming out, and you have condemned yourself by your own duplicity. You lied about your involvement in Beresh's life, just as you lied about your involvement in mine!"

"My dear son—"

"SHUT UP!" said Faraji. "We are standing before the royalty of Narnia, and even now you are lying to their faces. You promised to ruin me if I told the truth, and I gave in to that request. Not anymore!" By now, Faraji had begun to sob. "By the Man or Lion, or whatever Aslan is, I will tell the truth, even if I should die! I cannot stand to see the two of you breathe lies to these people!"

He swung to the Kings and Queens, making no effort to hide the misery on his face. "Thirteen years ago, Father sent me on my first mission. He told me the High King was plotting to kidnap the Talking Beasts of Calormen. There was a rumor that Queen Susan knew of it and was planning an operation. I went to Narnia in the second year of your reign; I went to Beaver's Dam, where I knew Her Majesty was expected to be...and I...I...I attacked her! I attacked your Queen!"

Faraji burst into tears and cried anew. Murmurs rippled across the vaulted hall, and Lucy and Peter shared looks of worry. It was here, as she stared at Faraji, that Susan's dour face started to lose its austerity.

" _Meha,_ I know you don't believe me, but can only say how sorry I am for what I've done. You have no reason to forgive me, because I have done nothing to earn your forgiveness, but I am sorry, anyway. If you want to imprison or torture or kill me, please—I beg you—don't put me before Aslan."

Faraji started sobbing again. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath.

"What do you mean?" said Lucy. "What is this about Aslan?"

Faraji sobbed a while longer as the room fell still. He was the only one who had made any noise, but he didn't care now.

As Faraji's sobs softened, Peter let out a long-held breath and turned to Philip. "Can you explain any of this?"

Whatever look was on Philip's face, it had no name or description. It was the kind of look that sat halfway between one emotion and another—between anger and pity, but not knowing what to choose.

The horse nickered and scraped a hoof against the stone floor. "Sire, I…" But a lump caught in his throat. "When he and I first met, he told me he had never been to Narnia before. And now...what am I supposed to say?"

Edmund spread his hands apart. "Why would he think Aslan wants to kill him?"

At that, Philip started to take on a haughty look, and something particularly nasty came to mind—but one glance at Faraji's sobs (and the tears puddling on the floor beneath his face) made him think better of it. "My lord, I was with him when I escorted him out of Erizad. What his people did to him, I would never wish on anyone. The Erizadi keep their people in line using threats and lies. It is the fear of a Man Aslan, who kills people for the slightest of offenses, is their greatest weapon. Faraji thinks that Aslan is hunting him down now, to put him to death for what he has done."

Faraji lifted his face. He flushed when he realized he hadn't stopped himself from crying yet. " _Mehan,_ I know I am asking too much, but please…help my people, and don't put me before Aslan!"

For a moment, the only sounds in the hall were the rain and thunder outside. Down the corridor came the marching of boots, followed by the groaning open of the double doors. Four soldiers carried in a crate big enough to hold a lion. Bergan lifted his hat from his head and gave a bow. "This is one of the crates the cheetahs told us about. It was delivered to us while they were en route."

"What of the other one?"

"Food for the feast. This second one is more mysterious."

Peter stared at Saheeb. "Tell us what's in it."

Saheeb rose on all fours. "As cheetah king of Calormen's beasts, I acquired a great many treasures. Many of them once belonged to the Tarkaan whom I formerly called my master. I have amassed 200,000 crescents in gold, 100,000 crescents in silver, and 30,000 crescents' worth of jewels. With the help of the Tarkheena, I have also brought to you her husband's finest wine and spirits. I have also brought the finest breads and cakes, all the property of her late husband."

Peter nodded at Bergan. "Open it."

Bergan stuck a chisel between the lid and the wall of the crate. The wood gave a loud crack as the lid came loose, and Bergan stood over the mouth of the crate. "Indeed, everything is here, except—" A pause as he sifted through the right side of the crate, and he looked up at King Lune. "I say! Your necklace, your medallion, your scepter—they have all been returned."

Lune stood up from his throne and stared with his mouth half-open. "After thirteen years," he said, his eyes drifting to Saheeb, "you returned these to me...and all I want to know is why. Forgive me for not showing my gratitude. How is this your responsibility?"

The room fell awkwardly still. All eyes were on Saheeb now. Faraji half-expected someone to accuse the cheetah king of stealing the treasures. But then, Saheeb twitched his tail and lifted his head with a haughty smile, at at once Faraji knew something terrible was about to be said.

With that, Saheeb turned to Faraji. "Tell them," he said. "Tell them how you assassinated his wife and stole his treasures...Beresh."

Faraji knew it was coming, but when it came, he was filled with so many emotions all at once, he didn't know which one to feel. The worst of them was the flushing of his face; he felt as if he had been kicked and slapped. Tears started to well up in his eyes again, and he threatened to sob as Lune stabbed a finger at him. "I knew it."

"Father?" said Nazeen. "What are you _doing?!"_

"My king," said Saheeb, "I apologize on behalf of my son. As he refuses to repent of his crimes, we have to do it for him."

"Damn it, Father, I have done nothing of the sort!" said Faraji. "Explain it to them, Mother!"

She brushed it away with a scoff and turned to Lune. "He stole your treasures from you, Sire—including your queen, the most precious treasure a man could own."

"That's a lie!" said Nazeen. "He didn't do anything like that!"

Saheeb lifted a paw. "Enough. Don't cover for your brother. He has spilled enough blood to fill a lake ten times over, and now he has the audacity to lie about his deeds. And what a shame that he can't tell the truth! We brought him here to make him account for what he did."

Philip's mouth fell open. "What?!"

"That's a lie!" said Nazeen.

"I thought you were no good, and now I'm certain of it," said Lasaraleen. "You called him Haroshta. You told us the stories. You looked us in the face and said Beresh was killed."

"By Aslan, I don't know what you're talking about!" said Saheeb. "And by the way, why haven't you taken responsibility for all those people who died in Rasul? Your husband killed them, and you gave hearty consent to it."

Peter sighed and shook his head. "It will take us the better part of the _night_ to get to the bottom of this. There are too many accusations and not enough evidence to support half of them. We will reconvene when Aslan returns and puts things right."

Faraji's face went all weepy again. "No!"

"Were you of unblemished reputation, you would have been on your way. But as it is, your crimes against us are too serious to ignore. Without enough evidence to render a verdict, I have no choice but to take this to the highest of all high kings."

"But _mehan,_ he will _kill_ me!"

A look of sorrow fell upon Peter's face. He had never seen a creature so miserable as this. But when he lifted his head again, a stern frown had fallen. "I have no choice," he said softly. "If that is what Aslan thinks fit, he will pass judgment one way or another. I'm sorry."

"No!" sobbed Faraji. "NO!"

And he turned about and burst for the open window.

"Faraji!" said Philip.

"Brother!" cried Nazeen.

But by the time the words left their mouths, Faraji had sprung away. He soared out the window and disappeared into the gloom. Bergan rushed to the window and looked out at the curtains of rain. Faraji had already vanished into their folds.

Nazeen growled. "Father, what have you _done?!"_

"Be quiet, Nazeen."

"Haroshta saved our lives, and this is how you repay him?"

"That cheetah is not Haroshta. That is Beresh, so stop filling this room with your lies."

"If you don't take back your words, you are not my father!"

Saheeb blinked his eye and looked her in the face, then bowed his head. "Fair enough."

Philip snorted and flicked his eyes toward Saheeb. "Your son was right to doubt you. He _should_ have gone back to Erizad. Instead, we brought you to Narnia and the North, and what happened? You accused an innocent woman and you disowned your children. It should be you confessing your crimes; instead, Faraji did."

"Philip, enough!" said Peter. "Saheeb and Zareenah have not been charged with a crime. There is no evidence to warrant their prosecution. But their son is guilty of a capital offense, and right now, only Aslan can determine whether he has mended."

"Your Highness, I was in Rasul when the disease broke out. Whether or not Faraji has mended, Erizad needs our help."

"If we send one of our eagles to Erizad, the Calormenes might kill him before he can deliver the cordial. But if we send Faraji to Erizad, he might not go there at all. I will not ask my sister to part with the cordial until this matter is sorted out."

"But Faraji—"

"You don't know him as well as you think," said Peter. "Philip, he lied to you. He tortured my sister. If you had a sister and Faraji attacked her, would you give him the medicine?"

The horse gave no answer.

King Lune brought his scepter down onto the stone floor. "This matter will be settled when Aslan arrives. Saheeb, you and your wife and daughter will be kept under guard until then. Lasaraleen, as you have been implicated in this conspiracy, I have no choice but to do the same. Bergan, you and your men will look for Beresh. Once you and your men find him, you will place him in maximum security. You will not let any man or beast visit him, and you will not grant his requests without my permission. This court is adjourned...and now, perhaps, we can proceed to more pleasant matters."

At that, Bergan and his men led the cheetahs out the double doors, and all swung to the left as Philip swung to the right and headed for the eastern stables. As soon as the double doors boomed shut, King Lune leaned back on his throne. "This has been a troubling evening, and no mistaking that."

Peter nodded.

"I am still not convinced of his innocence," said Lune. "He resembles Beresh in everything but his speech. I shouldn't wonder if Beresh is trying to trick us again."

Edmund grimaced. "It is his parents I despise. Of all the cheek! To accuse their own son and disown their own daughter."

Susan sighed and laid her head in a hand. "Oh, Ed, if only I had spoken up."

"Why, Su?"

"I could have forgiven him then and there. If I had, he wouldn't have run away."

"We don't know that," said Peter. "Besides, he is guilty of a crime against you. He attacked and tortured you—"

"He leapt at me and clawed my shoulder, Peter. That was all. He didn't have a chance to do anything else. It was horrible what he did, but it was not beyond forgiveness. He is not the same cheetah who attacked me so long ago."

Edmund gave a sad smile. "And there are worse things one can do, like betray one's brother and sisters to a witch. If that sort of traitor can change, perhaps Faraji already has."

"Oh, dear brother," said Lucy, "what are we to do about him? I have never seen a creature look so frightened. What do you think the Erizadi did to him?"

Peter numbly shook his head. "We have a cordial that can heal a fever, mend a broken bone, and pull people from the brink of death, but there is no magic powerful enough to reverse a fear like that."

Lucy paused. "Except Aslan."


	15. The Greatest of Fears

**_A/n:_** _The end is near, my friends_ _! Only five more chapters until Faraji's grand (mis)adventure draws to a close. Many great and terrible things are about to happen in the interim, and plenty of plot twists are still in the making (as if we haven't had enough already—first, Faraji finds out his father wrote the letter that sent him on this disastrous mission, and now his parents betray him and accuse him of being his murderous brother, Beresh. As if things in the North weren't sordid enough, we have Moro—everyone's favorite cheetah—causing mayhem in the South, bringing one plot twist after another into the mix).  
_

 _In the meantime..._

 _Hands down, this chapter was the hardest to write. I second-guessed myself at every turn. "Is it boring?" "Is it realistic?" "Is it preachy?" Et cetera. But in the end, after all my agonizing and revising, it went the way I thought it would (and should). And to my relief, I got it done on time._ _Christmas is only a blink away, and the events of this chapter and the lessons Faraji will soon learn are quite fitting._

 _By the way: I quote the_ Narnia _books more than usual. I take no credit for C.S. Lewis's work—just my paraphrasing._

 _In conclusion: (1) Thanks for reading, and (2) merry Christmas._

 _~ John_

* * *

 **Faraji wept** all the way out of Anvard. The rain had hidden him in its curtains and soaked him to the skin, but it was no matter—he had stopped caring about that now. Nothing had gone right ever since he set off on this mission, and at every turn he found himself to blame. _If I had just followed Philip out of Palár instead of attacking him, I wouldn't have fallen ill with the Red Death. If I had just done what he said in Teebeth, those two Calormenes wouldn't be dead. And if I had just listened to my parents, they wouldn't have betrayed me. Why is it that everything I've done has gone so wrong?_ And at that, Faraji started to cry again as the memories assailed him—his master's boy lying ill, the Red Death torturing him with pain, the hot iron bar that fell on him and scorched his shoulder, and now his parents' accusing him of his brother's crimes.

However long it was until he stopped crying, he didn't know. By then, the grass all around him was half-sunk in rainwater, and he realized that his tail and paws were numb and his limbs were shivering in the cold.

"Oh, Aslan," he sobbed through his chattering teeth. "Whether you are Man or Lion, I know not, but my life is in your hands. If you do not pity me, then kill me here."

And just as the words left his lips and he started crying yet again, the rain began to abate, as if the storm had just begun to run away. A moment passed before he realized he had stopped shivering. His fur felt perfectly dry, as though it had never been wet. Out of the fog and gloom came a golden light, shining from a mane that crowned a regal face.

Faraji saw none of this at first, for his back was still turned, and he was too miserable to notice much of anything beyond himself. And so when the beast spoke his name, the cheetah did not yet answer—rather, he stopped crying. The voice behind him was rich and heavy and wild, one that could make the whole earth move beneath you, but was solemn and glad, too. Faraji thought that whoever this creature was, it almost seemed glad to meet him. And so the cheetah started to turn around, though his face was half-miserable still, and when he did, terrible dread rushed up and down him. He tried to run, but he found that he couldn't move.

The beast lifted a paw and laid it on Faraji's tensing shoulder. "It's all right," said the beast. "Don't be afraid."

Faraji felt a measure of strength return to him, and his heart stopped racing. He stared in wonderment, his eyes wide and mouth hanging halfway open. "Who are you?"

"I am the answer to your prayer." The beast's golden eyes were gentle and kind, and along his muzzle there seemed to be a smile.

Faraji put on a cross face and spun away. "I don't believe you. I have been fooled before; I will not be fooled again."

Before the beast could reply, Faraji's ears swiveled. The drumming of horse's hooves shook the ground, and the thud of hooves and the jingle of tack grew louder. As the horse loped between the trunks, the man's face came into view. Faraji's heart sank when he saw it was Bergan. The man dripped from head to boot, and a sword hung from his belt. But the man did not reach for it. Instead, he let out a sigh of relief. "I'm glad I found you. I was beginning to think you had gone to Narnia."

"Your people think I'm a mass murderer," said Faraji. "Why would it matter what happened to me?"

"Queen Susan spoke with me about what happened. She told us we were mistaken."

"But I'm still guilty in her eyes. Confound it, man, I attacked her thirteen years ago—"

"That's why I was looking for you. She has dropped the charges against you. She wants you to come back."

A long pause filled the air. Faraji sat with his mouth open as the words looped through his mind. "...She...She does?"

"Yes," said Bergan. "She wants you to come back to Anvard and join them in the feast. And Queen Lucy wants to give you the medicine."

A moment passed, and Faraji sighed and shook his head. "I can't go back," he said. "No matter what they think, I am still guilty of a capital crime. If Aslan wants to kill me, he will have to hunt me down and drag me back there."

A grimace of confusion twisted Bergan's face. He looked blankly at Faraji, then at the beast. When no answer came, he looked the beast in the face. "What am I to tell them, Sire?"

"That I am going to Narnia to retrieve the cordial."

"So will I," said Faraji. "Bergan, this is why I came here. I ought to see it through."

Bergan still looked confused, but nodded all the same. With a bow of his head, he nickered to his horse, and the steed splashed through the soggy ground and down the hill.

Faraji turned to the beast. "I hope you don't mind, _mehan,"_ he said.

The beast gave a low rumble that made the earth thrum. Faraji knew it was a purr.

* * *

 **By the time** they entered the mountains, the storm had drifted out of Anvard and flickered over the hills behind them. The lightning still lit the hills all around, but the thunder was little more than a whisper. Straight ahead, the mountains towered over their heads; as they made their way up the pass, the gentle hills steepened, and the ground became hard and rocky beneath their paws. But Faraji didn't mind, now that the rain had gone. The air around them was warm and thick, and soon Faraji felt as though he had never been in the rain. It was then that he found the words to say and the nerve to say them.

"Why would you do this for me, _mehan?"_ said the cheetah. "Isn't it obvious that I'm an enemy of Narnia?"

"I don't call you one," it said. "Why should I change my mind?"

"Because thirteen years ago, I attacked Queen Susan. A month ago, I attacked Philip. Now, my parents are accusing me of my brother's crimes. Everyone thinks I'm a thief and a mass murderer, and now King Peter wants to put me before Aslan."

"Why should you die?" said the beast. "Is there no way for a traitor to mend?"

Faraji scoffed. "Why would that matter? In the Man's eyes, every crime against him is a debt to be paid with blood. But if he killed us all, he would have no subjects—and what good is a kingdom if you have no subjects?—so he struck a bargain with men and beasts after the world was made: If we do enough good deeds to pay off our debts, he might admit us to his Eternal Palace; and if we don't, then—"

Faraji's voice trailed off, and he was silent again. "Oh, confound it," he said. "It sounds absurd, even to hear it. Even more absurd is that I have never even met the man."

"But you fear him, anyway."

"I don't have a choice. Whenever there is a threat against my life, I would be a fool to take it lightly. And when the threat comes from Aslan, I suppose I would be dead if I took it lightly."

"Did you ever wonder when the stories of the Man Aslan began?"

"No," he said. "I assumed this was all known since the beginning of time."

"Your leaders assumed that, as well—which is to be expected, as they have never learned their true history."

"Why haven't they?"

"Because in Erizad, no such records exist. Until a hundred years ago, Erizad was a people devoted to the worship of the true Aslan. For a time, they were even called the Narnia of the South. But in the days of Teimuraz—who, as you know, was credited with spreading the message of the Man Aslan—Erizad was not so admired. In fact, under his watch, they had become lazy and feckless. In forgetting the true Aslan, they forgot their history, and in so doing they forgot themselves. Soldiers were no longer concerned with protecting and defending their families. They took bribes, stole from their own people, fought with one another over prostitutes—and that was only the beginning. Some declared war on their own citizens; others disposed of children and wives at their leisure. Teimuraz was no better; in fact, he was the most notorious of them all. Eventually, it became their undoing. A hundred years ago, Calormenes led a surprise attack. Instead of taking it over by force and numbers, they took it over by breaking the will of Erizad. In the final days of the war, they beheaded and dismembered people by the hundreds, and Teimuraz and his sons hid in the dungeon of Andur. Soon, the Calormenes led an assault on Andur; his sons, daughters, brothers and sisters were murdered before his eyes, in a terrible fashion that drove him to madness. This gave Erizad the last measure of fury and strength to rout Calormen at last, but Teimuraz paid the heaviest price of them all. After he gained a measure of sanity, he created the myth of the Man Aslan. But he did not stop there. In his eyes, there could be no connection with the past; he destroyed all the scrolls and books that contained the true history of the world, including the history of Narnia."

"And Erizad has languished in fear ever since," said Faraji. "We swung from one extreme to another. But why would Aslan let it go on like this? Is he lazy or inept?"

"Aslan cannot work through unwilling hearts," said the beast. "In the last hundred years, he has spoken in dreams and acts of magic—even face to face—but every time has been met with resistance and hostility. The teachings that fill people with fear also fill them with pride; those who wield power over others, even when they use it with fear, do not lose their love of power."

Faraji nodded. _That is the Sarazen, the Mareshahs, and us soldiers—no mistaking that._ "Is that my punishment, _mehan?_ Did I go to Erizad because of my misdeeds?"

"No," said the beast. "You don't see it yet, but your time in Erizad has prepared you for this season. Reza and his family are now followers of the true Aslan; they are risking their lives to spread the truth about Aslan. All they need now is you—to deliver the medicine and stop the attack."

A cold tone crept into the cheetah's voice. "These people stole me from my home and filled me with lies. I have lived in fear and terror because of what they have done. If I am to go back to Erizad, it will not be to stay."

The beast turned to face him. It was here that Faraji saw the great cat look stern. "If you deliver the medicine and leave, you will spend the rest of your life running from your enemies."

"I am a recipient of the Red Diamond—I do not run from my enemies." But Faraji's stomach had already jumped into his throat. Deep inside, he knew the beast was right.

Faraji flushed even more deeply. He hid his face, fearing it might light up like a beacon. "Damn it," he growled, batting a paw on the ground. "All right, _mehan,_ you made your point. Just admit that I'm a coward and be done with it."

But the beast shook its head. "Faraji, none of that makes you a coward. Your courage and intelligence become you, and your awards and accolades are well earned. But every great warrior has his limits, and every scholar reaches the end of his understanding. When it comes to Aslan, you have reached the end of your courage and wits. Your fear of Aslan weakens you and clouds your judgment; your parents knew it would, and your enemies know it will."

Faraji was silent, and his head was bowed. He knew that if he spoke or lifted his head, the beast would see every bit of embarrassment and shame. "Then what is to be done, _mehan?"_ said Faraji. "The fears of Erizad might be their undoing. But we cannot just ignore the laws of Aslan. If fear is what it takes for people to do what they're told—"

"But this is why you and your people keep suffering as you do. You know that you cannot be good in the eyes of Aslan, and all you expect is death. Fear and threats produce goodness—but it is full of misery and punishment. There is no peace, no joy, no love. There is only desperation to appease Aslan. It does not quicken people to do what they're told; it weakens their hearts and forces them to live in alarm, and in the end, it leads to despair."

Faraji blinked the tears out of his eyes. "But I don't know another way to live."

"That is why you were brought here," said the beast. "I want to show you another way—the greatest way."

Faraji stared at the beast, waiting for it to continue.

"Fifteen years ago, a young boy found himself in a similar position. He was at his wit's end, and he was powerless to change his lot. He, too, was a traitor; he committed a capital crime against Aslan and his brother and sisters. When he came from his own world into ours, the first thing he did was fall in with the Witch—the same Witch who threw Narnia into a hundred-year winter."

Faraji's eyes widened. "Why would he do that?"

"He was told that he would be made into a prince, that he would rule over his brother and sisters. But there was a condition: First, he had to bring them into her realm and deliver them into her hands. What he did not know was that all four of them were part of a prophecy: Through them, Aslan would end the everlasting winter. Of course, the Witch wanted to kill them to ensure it would never come to pass, and though she never succeeded, she did come close to ruling over Narnia."

"With a little help from that boy," said Faraji. "I assume Aslan killed him."

"No," said the beast. "He and the Witch made a pact: She would acquit the boy of the charges, and Aslan would die in the boy's place."

"Do you mean to tell me Aslan is dead?"

The beast chuckled. "Not at all," he said. "There was a deeper magic that the Witch had never expected: Because an innocent died in place of a traitor, death was reversed. The true Aslan is alive, and the debt is paid. Because of what he did, the boy mended, and he went on to become a man. The same traitor, who once betrayed his siblings for a crown, is King Edmund the Just of Narnia."

"I say!" said the cheetah. "If a traitor like that can mend and go on to do something grand, I should wonder if there is hope for me yet. But you cannot honestly expect me to think all this is proper. The Calormenes would call it an unfair trade. The Erizadi would call it an obstruction of justice. Aslan's death defies all good sense and sensibility; there is nothing proper about it. If you expect me to think Aslan was not a liar or insane, what would make him do such a thing?"

The beast smiled. "Love."

Faraji was ready with a crass reply, but the beast's response made him go quiet. The word made his heart leap and his limbs tense with new strength, as if new magic had just been loosed into his veins. But he looked puzzled, too. _All these years of reading Erizadi lexicons and dictionaries, and never have I heard such a word._ "Love, you say?"

"The best way of all," said the beast. "Love is the thing that drives out fear. Love is what commands you to go on when you reach the end of your strength. Love is what moves a man to cancel a debt. Love is what compels a beast to give his life for his enemies. And love is what softens a man's heart and breaks the power of fear."

Faraji sighed. "And love is what will make me fight for the people who enslaved me, yes?" he said. "Obviously, I do not have that love—not much of it, anyway. Ever since I was taken to Erizad, I watched men risk their lives for their friends, but it was not out of love—not the kind of love you speak about. In the eyes of Aslan, our blood had to be spilled to atone for our transgressions. Death was a duty, and what better way to die than to save others and earn a room in the Eternal Palace?"

Faraji turned to the beast. " _Mehan,_ I know what I'm made of. We both know I don't have that regard for anyone, least of all myself. I would rather not have to do anything for them at all, especially after what Reza did. He stole me from my home and treated me worse than a dog. How can I love someone like that? Why should I?"

"Because you have been shown that kind of love," said the beast, "and in Aslan's kingdom, that love is given to others."

"I have never been shown that kind of love."

"I should think you have," said the beast. "What was it like, to hear that Queen Susan forgave you?"

Faraji expected a difficult question, but when it reached his ears, he did not even need to wait for the words. "It was like the joy a man who had just been pardoned. Just when I thought my life was to be measured in hours, I realized I might live a full span of years. There was no fear, no dread of what they might do. There was the faintest glimmer of hope that they might even think of me as a friend. It was very much…"

At that, Faraji swiveled toward him. "It was very much like the way _you_ have treated me. Not once have you frightened or threatened me. Yes, you have been stern with me, but you have never looked on me with contempt. No one has ever spoken to me as kindly as you have. I daresay you care something for me—more than I care for myself. Is that what love is, _mehan?"_

The beast tilted its shaggy head. "Part of it."

"Then what is the rest? Surely I'm not so thick that I can't understand it. Is love what will strengthen me for the tasks ahead? Is love something that Aslan does and I just never learned it? How can I know that Aslan will care for me me the way you have? How is it that you can say Aslan is so kind? And most importantly," said the cheetah: "Is Aslan... _anything_ like you?"

A smile, and the beast swung his huge bulk to the left. A waterfall tumbled out of the rocks. After a moment, Faraji followed the beast's eyeline and gazed into the water. All of a sudden, the ripples and rolls of water flattened, and the surface became smooth as a looking-glass. But it was not like looking into the face of your reflection. It was rather like watching a dream dance before you, or staring through a rainy window. And before Faraji knew it, he and the beast were walking straight through it.

Faraji braced himself for the burst of cold water upon his head and shoulders, but instead it felt like walking through a beam of light. Once they were through it, they found themselves in it, as if Faraji had just stepped into a new world. But what he saw was nothing new. They now stood in the home of his master. Everything looked bleary and the colors looked richer, like a dream in the night.

 _The Mareshah and his wife stood in the study. Reza's face was tear-stained and miserable, and Nazira had just laid a hand on his shoulder. "What is it?" she said. "Darling, whatever it is, you can tell me." The man sniffled and shook his head. "I shouldn't be your husband. What I did to you, to the boys, to Faraji—I can't ask your forgiveness." "But you already have it," said Nazira. "Reza, I want us to be a family—better than it was before. That's all I want. That's all the boys want." At that, Reza started to sob. "And what about Faraji? Damn it, Nazira, I_ stole him _from his home! Do you know what I did to keep him in line? It's no wonder he tried to run away when he first arrived; I was a terror, that's what I was! If only I could tell him that. If only I could say how sorry I am for what I did…"  
_

Everything around them turned white and misty, and another scene faded in all around them.

 _Reza was sitting in the living room of his house. His face was bloodied and bruised. Before him stood Rafik, who fidgeted in place and_ _shed a pair of tears. Reza let out a patient breath and said, "Salim called you a ghost, didn't he? And so you hit him, to prove you weren't a ghost." Rafik nodded again, and he looked as if he were about to cry. "Are...Are you going to hit me, Papa?" Reza's face fell. "Oh, my son...did I not tell you when Aslan came, that there would be a new order of things?" The boy nodded yet again, but he looked unconvinced. He and Navid were bowing their heads in shame. Reza paused, then laid his hands on their shoulders. "Look at me," he said. "This will never again be a house where my sons or any animals are hit. But do you know why it was wrong to hit Salim?" Rafik nodded and said, "Because it's not Aslan's way. But Papa, he didn't believe me!" Reza smiled sadly. "I know. It hurts when someone you love is mocked and ignored. But I want you to remember what Aslan has done. He has been shouted at and disbelieved, and never once has he argued or fought. It is that kind of Lion strength we ought to have when these things happen—to overlook insults, to keep the peace, and to love others who hate us—and I know you have that in you. Both of you do. But you need to act on it, because it will always be Aslan's way." After that, there was silence, and then Rafik's head rose. "I want to apologize to Salim." Navid nodded at that idea. "So do I..."_

Faraji stared on, though he aimed his words at the beast. "How wrong we have been," he said in a breath. "If this is what Aslan's way is like, how foolish were we to think we could do better. Truly, is that what love does, _mehan?"_ he said softly. "Does it move people to treat others with that sort of kindness?"

The beast said nothing—but his purr left no room for doubt.

 _After Reza dismissed the boys, he turned to Nazira. His wife smiled brightly and wrapped her arm around his. "Last week, you wondered how you could ever be like Aslan. You sound more like him than you think." The smile that flicked up his face didn't last. "What I had done before…to think that I once used a whip on my own children…I want to do better. My family, my people…they deserve a better man than the one I was before."_

At that, Faraji realized he was sniffling and his eyes full of tears. "He already is," he said. "He is not the same man who took me from my home. Why, he is not even the same man who sent me on this quest."

A pause, and Faraji let out a heavy breath. " _Mehan,_ I want to go back—and I want it to be for good. I want to forgive him, just as Queen Susan did. I want to be as kind to him as you have been to me. He has hurt me and treated me with hate, but no matter what he has done, I don't want him to live with that fear and guilt."

The beast purred again. "That, too, is what love does," it said. "It heals."

Faraji turned away as another scene dissolved all around them. And what he saw made his eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. It was the great beast, the same one who had walked with Faraji out of Anvard.

 _The beast stood upon a grassy hill, and the sun rose up behind its back. Down the slope sat a camp of red and gold tents. A whole army of Narnians—centaurs, naiads, dryads, leopards, cheetahs, and three children—were looking on from afar. Before the beast stood before a_ _young boy with black hair; the boy stared at him with wide eyes. (Faraji didn't need to ask to know who it was—it was Edmund, minus fifteen years.) "Sir," he said, flushing as if the word were somehow rude now, "I...I'm sorry." The beast nodded its great, shaggy head. "Son of Adam, what happens to those who commit crimes in your world?" The boy sniffled. "Sometimes, they get away with it. Quite often, they get away with it." The beast nodded. "And what happens to those who do right?" "They can be rewarded, but most of the time it seems like they're not." "Indeed," said the beast, "but that is not so in Narnia. An act of treason must be answered, just as every act of kindness must be rewarded." Edmund nodded. "I reckoned that, Sir," he said. "And I...I'm ready. I'll take what I have coming." He looked over his shoulder at his brother and sisters (there was no doubt in Faraji's mind who they were, either). "I sold them for a price. That was a right beastly thing I did. And if I have to die, it couldn't be any worse than how I feel now." The beast looked very solemn and stern at that remark. "If you die in this state, you will go to a land from which there is no return, where the penalty for your deed will be paid in full." At that, Edmund blanched, and his mouth fell open. "But I do not want that for you, child," said the beast in a gentler tone. "I am willing to put this right, and do even more. Long ago, there was a prophecy spoken about you and your brother and sisters, and I will see to it that it comes to pass." Edmund started to smile at that, but it quickly fell. "Wait a minute," he said; "you said that someone would have to die. Who is it?" The beast lifted its regal head and spoke two words that made Edmund's face fall. "It is I."_

Faraji's mouth fell as everything around him grew dark. He turned to the beast, to demand an explanation, but the next scene slid into focus.

 _The beast lay on a great stone slab, and monsters and Talking Beasts jeered at him. The Witch stood over him with a cruel smile on her lifeless, cold face. "Stop! Let him first be shaved." Laughter and jeering went up from all around as the great beast's mane was shorn from his head. A polar bear growled, which sounded more like a laugh than anything, and said, "Why, he's only a great cat, after all!" Somewhere, a girl's voice shrieked, "Oh, how can they! The brutes, the brutes!" The Witch didn't seem to hear it (not that it would have done any good). "Muzzle him!" she cried, and as the monsters bound up his face, the great beast lay there on the slab. Another girl screamed, "The cowards! The cowards!" Through the torches that snapped and danced, one could see her horror and grief twisting her face. Then the Witch took a terrible stone dagger between her fingers. "And now, who has won? Fool, did you think that by all this you would save the human traitor? Understand that you have given me Narnia forever, you have lost your own life, and you have not saved his. In that knowledge, despair and die."  
_

Faraji leapt forward, but he might as well have been chasing a rainbow. There was nothing to swipe at, nothing to rip apart with his claws. The knife came down into the great beast's side, and Faraji felt himself screaming, "NO!"

 _Faraji felt the world shake beneath him. The slab upon which the great beast lay was now cracked straight down the middle. And the sun had just begun to rise straight ahead of him. Silhouetted in the light were the two girls who saw the beast's death. "They might have left the body alone," said Lucy. Susan shook her head and said, "Who's done it? What does it mean? Is it magic?" And the beast cried out, "Yes!" And it was as though the whole world had awoken. Golden light shone over the land, and most of it seemed to come from the beast's mane. Susan and Lucy spun around, and with one voice, they cried, "Oh, Aslan!"_

As you have seen, Faraji has never been at a loss for words. One remembers that Philip said of him, "You speak as though you swallowed a book." But now, Faraji's emotions and thoughts went mad with wonderment and joy, for the first time in his life, he did not know what to say.

 _The great beast stared at the Witch, but aimed his words at the centaurs. "Fall back!" he growled. "The Witch is mine." And with a roar, he leapt at her and both tumbled out of sight, but Faraji knew she was dead..._

 _ _Faraji saw himself in Rasul, bleeding from the nose and mouth. Dr. Sharaz stood over him, trying to ease his discomfort, but the agony was so deafening, so dumbing, Faraji could only cry...but beside him, unbeknownst to him, stood the great beast. "Be strong, child," he said, his voice strong and steady, but darkened by melodies of grief. "Do not give up...Be strong..." Faraji did not hear it; all he did was groan in agony...__

 _ _ _"_ _Fear and threats produce goodness...full of misery and punishment. There is no peace, no joy, no love..."___

 _ _ _Faraji saw himself crying in Anvard, just as the beast padded up to him and opened its great mouth...but no noise came out. It was a long, warm breath, the one that had made Faraji dry once more..."Who are you?" said Faraji, and the beast smiled on him. "I am the answer to your prayer."___

 _ _And as great golden light wrapped itself all around the world and grew to a blinding crescendo of glory and beauty, voices dissolved and mixed together, as though the whole world were speaking.__ _ _"You have been so kind...__ _ _Not once have you frightened or threatened me..."__

 _ _"No one has ever spoken to me as kindly as you have. I daresay you care something for me—more than I care for myself..."__

 _ _"__ _ _Is that what love is, _mehan?"___

" _How is it that you can say Aslan is so kind?"_

 _"Is Aslan..._ anything _like you?"_

And at once, the world came back around them. _ _  
__

Faraji's face was wet with tears. He stood like a statue, and a paw hovered over the ground. His mouth hung open, his chest bellowing and squeezing shut to take in breath. All around him, grasses stood and glowed gold in the light of the newborn sun. On the horizon, atop an island far away, stood the castle of Cair Paravel and its white turrents. Faraji knew the beast was standing behind him, but he couldn't turn around. His limbs were going all trembly, but out of wonder, and at last, he found the words to say.

"It's…It's not...possible…"

And with a quavering breath and mouth agape, he looked over his shoulder. The big beast still lay on all fours, paws straight in front of his body, his big golden eyes glimmering, his mouth inching open and awaiting Faraji's every word.

"Are…Are you…?" The cheetah's breath came back into his lungs, and tears began to puddle in his eyes once more, but they were tears of joy. "Aslan..."

And the great beast laid his paw on Faraji's shoulder.

"Yes, child," he said softly. "I am Aslan."

* * *

 _There is no fear in love, because perfect love expels all fear. If we are afraid, it is for fear of punishment, and this shows that we have not fully experienced his perfect love._ _We love each other because he loved us first. ~ 1 John 4:18–19_


	16. Narnia and Erizad are Both in Trouble

_**A/n:**_ _One of the most unforgettable writing lessons I ever learned was simple and concise: Write the story as long as it needs to be, and not one word longer. That lesson has stuck in the back of my mind ever since this fanfic began, and now I get to put it to greater use._

 _Last time, I said I would end this fic in five chapters. I thought that was what I needed. But while I was writing this chapter, I figured out a way to shorten the ending of the whole story. Instead of a five-chapter ending, we're down to two._

 _The technique I'm employing in this chapter has made all the difference: Instead of focusing on events in one place, I will telescope between Narnia and Erizad. It ended up being easier than I expected: Not only are the events closely related, but everyone's favorite cheetah (and by favorite, I mean the one we all hate the most) ties them all together._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 **Faraji stared** slack-jawed and wide-eyed. The glorious Lion stood before him, beaming down on him like a joyful sun. It was He—the king of all high kings in Narnia, the true and majestic and real Aslan, and the Lion who had been the greatest of fears.

Faraji thought he should burst into joyful sobs, or start singing and dancing all at once. At first, he wanted to do all that and more. But he didn't. The wonder and glory were like a meteor falling through the atmosphere—it shone brighter than the sun, and then it was gone.

Aslan's smile started to fall, too. "What troubles you, Faraji?"

The cheetah's face started to twist, into the kind of face you make when you are about to cry. "All I want to know is why," he said. "I lived in terror of you for twelve years, and you did nothing to set me straight. Calormenes released the Red Death in Rasul, and you did nothing to stop the outbreak. My parents betrayed me, and you did nothing to help me. What have I done, that you should destroy me? What did the people of Rasul ever do, that you should sentence them to die in agony? Do you even _have_ an answer?"

Aslan blinked tears away from his eyes. "I know, Faraji," he said softly. "I know your grief. I know how it feels to be abandoned and betrayed, to suffer through no fault of your own. But what you are asking is too difficult for you to bear. If I gave you the answers, none of them would bring you any solace."

"Then answer me this: Has my journey been a waste of time? Or am I going to go back to Erizad just to find out that everyone I love is dead?"

"That is not for you to know—not yet," said Aslan. "Men have been driven mad by portents, just as they have been driven mad by the sorrows of the past. There is nothing better or nobler than take the journey that lies before you."

Faraji scoffed. "You refuse to explain the past, and you give me platitudes about the future. For all I know, we could have a happy ending, or this could be the doom of Erizad." A pause, and Faraji blinked tears out of his eyes. "But I might as well go forward with it, just to see how it all ends. I don't want to go to my grave not knowing what might have been. Besides, I'm the only one who knows about this threat, and I might be the only one able to stop it. All right, _mehan,_ I will humor you. I will complete my mission. But whether we have a happy ending, know this: I do not claim any allegiance to you, nor any love of you. All I care about is putting a stop to this insanity, assuming it is within your will."

Aslan nodded. "We will need to make haste," he said. "Even now, your enemies are at the door of my country. Narnia will be in need of your help, as you are now in need of theirs."

* * *

 **King Peter had not gotten** any sleep that night. The thunderstorm lasted half the night, and when it left, his stomach started to ache. He had taken a tea made just for this sort of thing, but it made no difference. By the time he had finished the whole pot of tea, he had begun to sweat. Before he knew it, he was vomiting in the infirmary, and the rest of his family and all their friends who attended the feast were joining him there and looking as sick as he was.

"It was something we ate," said Susan. Her face was white and her hair was matted with sweat. "Those cheetahs had something to do with it—I am certain of it."

"We do not know anything yet," said Edmund.

"We know enough," said King Lune. "Those two show up with a gift for us. The next day, everyone who attended the feast winds up with the same illness at the same time."

Peter shook his head, then turned to a tall man beside him. The other man had blond hair and a blond mustache, and a pale face made even paler by nausea. "Darin, is there something else the herbalists can give us?"

"They don't know, Your Highness," said the man. He grunted as his stomach flipped inside him. "They told me this is not like anything they have ever heard tale of. If it were acting any more quickly, they would treat it like a poison."

With a pained grunt, Peter rose up onto wobbly legs. "Whoever is healthy, I want them out of this castle."

"What about Saheeb and Zareenah?"

Peter paused. "Take them to the old fortress. Tell Bergan to keep them under guard."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Peter waited for Darin to leave and pull the door shut before letting out a groan. Now his muscles were starting to ache, and a wave of dizziness sent his head spinning and his ears ringing. He paused, waiting for the world to stop spinning all around him; something strange was making his face prickle and ache.

Lucy stared at him with worry. "Peter?"

All he saw was lips move. When he could hear everything around him, gasps of horror filled his ears.

Peter had no need to ask; he felt it straight away. Two lines of blood oozed out of his nose, and another two dribbled out of his mouth. He held a hand over his face and ducked away, and blood began to trail down his hand and wrist.

* * *

 **The crowd** roared at Moro, and the foyer in Andur shook with noise. Men pumped their fists into the air and beasts slammed their paws against the floor. A cheetah and a tiger spat at Moro but said nothing. All the while, Moro stared dully at them, his ears swiveled backward behind his crown, and looking as though he were watching the most boring play ever written.

"You are supposed to be the Sarazen," said a man. "Reza said something about the _balik_ spreading the disease; it was on _you_ to investigate it. You promised there would be answers, and answers are not coming from this house. Do the _balik_ carry the disease or not?"

"You all are believing in the delusions of a lunatic. There is no disease spread by _balik._ You know as well as I do: The Man Aslan sent the Red Death to curse us for our disobedience."

"What disobedience? What did those people do wrong?"

"I don't know," said Moro dully, "but it must have done something to infuriate the Man. If they hadn't, they wouldn't have died that way."

The crowd roared at him again. "That is nonsense!" said a tiger. "My brother died because he ate the _balik_. The others who got sick on the day of your coronation—they ate the _balik,_ as well, and all but one of them have died!"

Moro glared at him. "Your point?"

"Are you a fool, or do you just not care? The Red Death and the _balik_ are related. Any competent leader would investigate these events."

A woman nodded. "That was what Reza was doing before he disappeared."

"Well, since you seem to be so fond of such a delusional and blasphemous fool, why don't you take up your concerns with him?"

"Unfortunately, he's not the Sarazen. You are. And if you had a pulse in that empty heart of yours, you would tell your army to investigate. You would ensure that the deaths of our friends and family will not be forgotten. You would finally get out of this house and start to _act_ like the Sarazen, instead of sitting in luxury and being pampered by your servants and acting as though the world revolves around you."

As the crowd shouted and jeered in agreement, Moro turned to Ganesh. "Would you please remove this wench from my house. She keeps polluting the air with her words . . . not to mention that so-called perfume."

At that, the crowd booed. Several men twisted their hands in crude gestures, and the beasts growled and hissed.

"Obviously, we are getting nowhere with you," said the tiger. "Fine—if you want us to leave, we will leave. But mark my words: You have not heard the end of this."

"Oh, I look forward to hearing the rest," said Moro dully. "Guards, please escort them out. Come, Fayed—we have an important meeting in the study."

Ganesh nodded. "Yes, _mehan."_

* * *

 **Ganesh pulled the door shut** and let out a sigh. All was quiet. The story-high bookshelves and all the books therein muffled any noise from elsewhere, and there was no sign of anyone or anything at the front or back doors.

Moro turned about and looked Ganesh in the face. Now, the cheetah's face and voice looked and sounded Calormene—rich, melodious, and grave. "Please tell me you found the weapon."

"Yes, my lord. Abdul gave up the location just before we killed him. All ten barrels are in place, and the blood from those men and animals who died—all thirty vials are mounted on the walls, just as you ordered."

"Good. What about the _balik?"_

"We recovered a third of it. Some of it went to Anvard; the rest was sent to the other towns in Erizad."

Moro nodded. "We have been preparing for this day for two years. After all the mistakes you and your people made, it seems that everything is in place—"

"I cry your pardon, my lord, but . . . there are two other things."

Moro glared at him. "What?"

"We're still waiting to be paid."

"I thought we settled this, Ganesh. As soon as we convene in Teebeth, all of you will receive your final payments. And whatever was in Rameesh's and Mirradin's coffers will be distributed amongst the rest of you. What else, or do I need to explain it further?"

Ganesh paused. "Reza is still missing."

"So? Now that everything is in place, it doesn't matter. Faraji is the only one who worries me now; he might still be able to bring medicine from Narnia."

"How could he know of our plans?"

"I can't take the chance. He killed Mirradin for a reason; I seriously doubt it was out of spite. Whatever the reason was, I will find out when I meet him."

"Are you going to Anvard, my lord?"

"Unless _you_ can ride the back of an eagle. Your last order is a simple one: Go to the stables, saddle your horse, and get as far away from here as you can."

Ganesh started to turn on his heel and head for the back door. "Yes, my lord—"

There was a bang as the back door swung open. "DON'T MOVE!"

Moro swiveled around, and with a growl he started to crouch. The sound of a dozen pairs of clomping boots filled the hall, and men in blue uniforms emerged from the corridor. And Reza was at the front of the line, nocking an arrow and aiming its tip at Moro's forehead.

"Moro—if that is your name—you are under arrest for treason and murder and for aiding and abetting the Order of Aslan. By the Code of Aslan, Chapter XII, Section 4, the Assembly has stripped you of your rank and confiscated your crown and necklace. You will stand before the Assembly in three days, during which time you will be allowed to have a council to testify on your behalf (as though you needed one). Now slowly . . . step forward."

A pause. Reza half-expected Moro to say something in that dull voice, but no reply came. Moro glowered at him and twitched the tip of his spotted tail, but was in every other way as still as a tree.

Without warning, the cheetah burst into a run.

"HE'S GOING TO THE BACK STAIRS!" said Reza. "CUT HIM OFF!"

Reza barely had time to get the words out. Ganesh whipped a dagger out of his coat and flung it at Reza. The knife flipped end over end, its tip grazing the shoulder of Reza's uniform, but the Mareshah ducked away as the blade clanged against the wall.

Reza kicked at Ganesh, sending him tumbling face first into the floor, and the Mareshah whipped out his own dagger and pinned him by the neck. As Ganesh stopped struggling, Reza glanced upward and muttered a curse under his breath. Moro had disappeared up the stairwell.

Reza turned back to Ganesh. "What's the weapon?"

Ganesh grunted in pain, but he smiled in triumph. "Sleep with the White Witch, demon."

Reza scoffed, then with a mighty grunt he pulled Ganesh to his feet and shoved him against the wall. "What's the weapon?"

Ganesh panted and grimaced, but he said no more.

Reza pushed the blade of the knife against Ganesh's throat. "You are guilty of conspiracy and murder. I have the right to kill you here and now. But if you tell me what the weapon is and where we can find it, I can save your life."

"My life means little to me," said Ganesh. "Tash is my god. Calormen is my nation. The Tisroc (may he live forever) is my master. I will not abandon them, not for my life, and not for the all the riches in the world."

Reza drew in a breath, but he released it as he heard a clamor. Men shouted and barked orders, and arrows began to whistle through the air. Reza balled a hand into a fist and sent Ganesh crumpling to the floor, and he ran for the front doors and burst onto the porch.

Reza was about to shout for a report, but there was no need. Yassir and the rest of the soldiers were firing arrows at a troop of eagles. The birds had taken off from the roof of Andur and had swung north. And on the back of the foremost eagle was Moro.

Reza burst through the line of men and nocked an arrow. The bow string gave a thick snap as it launched the arrow into the sky. The arrow soared in a huge arc before it disappeared amid a billowing cloud, and just as Reza lost sight of it, the eagles scattered.

One bird had suddenly gone limp and started spiraling to the ground, and Moro dropped through the air. The cheetah tumbled once, twice, and fell into the crowd. Men and beasts scattered as Reza and his men charged down the thoroughfare, and as soon as they got close enough to look the passersby in the face, all eyes were on them, wide with horror and shock.

Moro writhed in pain on the ground, and the man who stood beneath him was unconscious. The eagle who carried the cheetah lay dead; the arrow had plunged through its breast. Moro's crown was dented and had tumbled off to one side. A ring of men, women and beasts gathered around him, some wondering if they should help him up, and others watching and waiting for the next thing to happen.

"What is this?" said an elderly man. "You try to assassinate our own Sarazen?"

"Serves him right," said a tiger. "What did he do now?"

"Last night, the Assembly charged him with conspiracy and murder. He is responsible for everything that has happened in the last month, from the outbreak in Rasul to manipulating the Assembly to appoint him Sarazen. He brought Calormenes into this country to spread the Red Death into every city, and he created the Order of Aslan to do his bidding."

Murmurs and cries swept through the crowd.

"That is outrageous," said the elderly man. "He is the rightful Sarazen. What evidence do you have to convict him?"

Moro scoffed. "Enough, old man. . . . I have nothing to deny." Everyone around him fell silent. By now, he had lost his Erizadi accent. At that, he turned to Reza and lifted a pained smile up his muzzle. "You're too late. . . . You can't stop the explosion."

It was as if everything fell into slow motion after that. _The black powder . . ._

"Yassir, get your men out of there!" said Reza. "GET YOUR MEN OUT OF THERE NOW!"

Just as the words left his lips, Yassir and a row of men toppled backward as a bang shook the ground. A flash lit up the inside of Andur, and a wall burst outward. Stones and dust flew into the air with every blast, and all six floors of Andur fell inward. The crowd screamed and scattered every which way, and Moro disappeared into the din. Reza and his soldiers charged into the crowd, shouting at them to go this way or that way. The dust grew thick all about them, turning the golden sun into a pale gray disk. At that, horses neighed in terror, and tigers and cheetahs shouted something about smelling death in the air.

At once, Reza remembered what Faraji had written in his letter: ". . . _a deathly smell in the water and air . . ."  
_

Reza leaned against a wall. Everything around him was covered and hidden in dust.

 _We have been exposed._

* * *

 **Faraji and Aslan arrived** at the gates of Anvard just as the sun dipped below the hills. Soldiers in green and red tunics stood guard; their faces were somber and full of fear. Behind them, a line of men and women streamed into the castle. They were holding towels over their faces, and a few of them were coughing or sobbing.

"By the Lion," said the cheetah. "Darin, what is happening?"

"It has been a nightmare," said the mustached man. "Everyone is bleeding from the nose and mouth."

"We sent an eagle to bring the cordial. What happened?"

"It had no effect. Everyone is sick and getting worse. Now, we're hearing reports that soldiers and their families are falling ill. Everyone who's bleeding or sweating is being told to come here, to isolate them from everyone else."

"What about the herbalists?" said Faraji. "Can they mix the cordial with any of your medicines?"

"We have tried twenty different remedies, we mixed them with the cordial—they did nothing."

Faraji's breath started to tremble, but he composed himself as a smile started to form. "What is Queen Lucy's medicine?"

"Fireflower extract."

"And what else have you tried?"

"Coneflower, garlic—everything we use to treat illnesses."

"They won't work. The Red Death is like a thousand wounds in a hundred different places. You need something that heals wounds, and then use the cordial to enhance its effects."

"We don't have anything like that."

Faraji swung to Aslan, who gave no reply. Instead, the Lion seemed to be waiting for Faraji to answer. Just as the cheetah started to retort, his eyes lit up. "Wait," he muttered, and a smile lifted his face. "I have something, and so do you. My master gave me a medicine before I left Erizad; it's a combination of extracts that heals wounds. If we combine that with the cordial and some goldenrod and yarrow, they won't neutralize each other, and they won't render the cordial inert. All we need is to mix three parts of my medicine with two parts of goldenrod and yarrow."

Darin stared at him.

"I was at university for eight years. I took a course in natural and magical medicines."

Darin chuckled. "There might be hope yet. If you're that knowledgeable, I should think it's worth a try. Where is your medicine?"

Darin had no time to reply. Above them came a swarm of noise. A man cried as though he were being killed, and a body fell to the floor. The hall was filled with shouts of "STOP HIM!" and "HE WENT THAT WAY!" and "WHERE IS SHE?!"

A look of horror fell over Faraji's face. "Damn it, I thought my parents were gone! Why are they back?!"

"I don't know!" said Darin. "Come!"

At that, Faraji charged through the gates, with Darin following close behind. The three entered the courtyard and followed the stone path into the castle, where torches lit the stairwell. Faraji bounded up the stairs as Darin broke left at the second floor. The cheetah swung his head to and fro, then turned a torch-lit corner. As the next hall rushed around to meet him, two familiar figures rushed up to meet him, and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

"Philip? Nazeen?"

"Spotted one!"

"Dear brother, are you all right?"

"I will be when this is over. Confound it, what are you both doing here?"

"There was an eagle flying out of the south," said Philip. "When your parents saw it, they came back here. Obviously, given their history, we could not just sit by."

"How are your masters?"

"Spotted one, I thought I would be prepared for this, but I was not. They're all sick with it. Boils have already broken out. They have lost so much blood, it's a wonder they aren't dead already, and they said they have never felt pain like this before."

 _It's only going to get worse,_ Faraji thought.

"Your parents—whinny-inny!—I have no doubt they brought the _balik_ here. And it's no wonder they tried to get rid of us: We would have known about it and put a stop to it."

"I'm sorry to say it, but I think you're right. What was the commotion downstairs?"

"Bergan is dead. There was a cheetah I didn't recognize—he wore a necklace with a white crystal—and I heard your father say something about medicine on an upper floor."

"Philip, are you certain you want to do this?"

"My friend, I am not afraid of the Red Death. And I am not afraid of anyone who wants to use it."

"Nor am I," said Nazeen. "Brother, what do you want us to do?"

"Protect me. Somewhere in this castle is my saddle, and in my saddle is a medicine from Erizad. It's used to treat wounds. If we combine it with the cordial and two other medicines, it might be enough to heal everyone. If our parents have helped planned this conspiracy, they probably know about the medicine and are probably here to destroy it. All I need is for you both to accompany me—to ensure that the medicine gets where it needs to go."

"Of course," said Nazeen.

"Whinny-inny!" said Philip. "I was hoping you would ask."

Faraji nodded. "Let's go."

And as he turned around and started away, two bursts of white light filled the hall. Then came crackling and groaning, and the air grew cold and thick like the air of a cemetery. Faraji had already spun around, but he gathered the strength and broken out of his shock to scream "NO!" The horse's hoof hung halfway in the air, and the cheetah had no idea what had happened. Philip and Nazeen had been turned to stone.

Faraji had no time to start sobbing. He crouched and let out a growl. He knew who was padding up to him. He knew who wore that broken piece of the White Witch's wand in his necklace. He knew the large, muscular cheetah who, even with the limp and the bloodied face, looked as cruel and strong and terrible as when they had last seen each other. And when Faraji saw Saheeb and Zareenah flanking him on both sides, Faraji knew.

Of course, you and I know this cheetah to be none other than Moro. But Faraji knew this cheetah by another name:

"Beresh. . ."

And the other cat gave a pained grunt and forced a smile onto his dull face.

"We meet again . . . brother."


	17. The Healing of Nations

**Faraji growled** at Saheeb. "Well, this all makes sense now. You knew what Beresh was doing, and you knew I could stop him if I were still in Erizad. You had to get me out of the way, so you wrote a letter in the High King's name. But you were afraid I would not go willingly, so you sent Philip to Erizad, to make it look as though Aslan had sent him. All this just so you could let my dear brother run loose in my country."

"We did not do it for him alone," said Zareenah. "We did it for your sake."

"For _my_ sake?"

"We knew what the illness does, Haroshta. We did not want you to die that way."

Faraji scoffed. "Forgive me if I don't say 'Thank you.'" And he turned to his brother. "What do _you_ stand to gain?"

"Everything," said Moro (or Beresh, for that was his true name). "Our country is a ship of fools, and the Tisroc is the biggest fool of all. He knows nothing except invasion and conquest. Whenever he wants to take a distant land, he sends an army, and whenever that fails, all he does is send _more_ armies. We have had enough of this waste. The Red Death is what will bring Erizad and the North to their knees. We will take these lands once and for all. The flag of Tash, the inexorable, the incomparable, will fly over every kingdom. The Tisroc and his Tarkaans will be overthrown, and the world will tremble at the sound of my name: Beresh, the rightful heir to my father's throne, and the Tisroc of Calormen (may I live forever)."

Faraji shook his head. "You tried to kill me twelve years ago. If you knew I was alive, why didn't you try again?"

"Because I did _not_ know," said Beresh. "For ten years, I too was enslaved. After I tried to kill you in Tehishbaan, the Erizadi almost killed me. The Tarkaan of that city rescued me, if you can call it that. He was the one who told my parents I was dead. He made me his pet under pain of death. When I recovered from my injuries, I overheard something about him selling me into slavery, so three years ago I killed him and hid in Erizad. When I was in Arkanaz, I had heard reports of an illness that was killing the Erizadi. Imagine it: a weapon that not even _they_ could stand against. After that, I met a cheetah named Moro, who shared my mannerisms and speech. Once the true Moro was killed, I started impersonating him. A few weeks later, the Sarazen brought me into his army, and I helped him command the men while I studied the Red Death."

"Even then, you didn't know I was alive."

"Not until I found out that Mirradin had died. Imagine my surprise to learn that his killer was the great Faraji, formerly known as Haroshta. But there was no point in sending an army after you. By then, you were too far away from Erizad to threaten me, and too far from Narnia to make any difference. Once you arrived in Anvard, I supposed the _balik_ would kill you or all your fears of the Man Aslan would drive you mad."

"And the necklace? Did the Witch put you in her will?"

Beresh smirked. "No, brother, she had no will and testament. However, she thought I was an exceptional student."

"And now you want to use that on me."

"Haroshta, he has no choice," said Saheeb. The old cheetah blinked his lone eye. "You are guilty of treason against Calormen. Your mother and I hoped you would come to your senses, but you defied Calormen and fell in with our enemies. If you go on, you will destroy everything we have worked for. I beg you to give up the medicine—"

"Or what? I know the true Aslan. My brother is not a terror to me."

"Do not test me," said Beresh. "You have no idea what I can do to you."

"Try me. You have taken away everything I care about. You killed my best friend. You killed our parents' daughter. You are killing the only allies I have. You have unleashed the Red Death in Erizad, and you have left me powerless to do anything about it. All I have are my convictions and my loyalty. If I gave those up, I would have nothing left. So do what you want to me. Torture me, set me on fire, turn me to stone—I don't care. I have endured the Red Death. I have confronted my worst fears. After everything I have been through, I am not afraid of you or any man."

Beresh did not scoff. Instead, a bitter scowl deepened. "You sound just like a Narnian. Your allegiance to Aslan has made you pious and long-winded like the rest of them. Well, since you are now an expert on the Lion, what did he ever do for you? You are loyal to a Lion that has been cruel to you. He did nothing to stop Reza from taking you to Erizad or from poisoning your stupid head with lies. He did nothing to save your people from me; he stood by as I unleashed the Red Death in Rasul and conspired to become the Sarazen of your country. So tell me: Why would you fall in with Aslan?"

Faraji paused. He had been asking himself this question for the last day, and no answer came. But now, as Beresh stood before him, glaring at him with that bored and haughty smile, the words began to flow.

"Indeed, my life has not turned out the way I planned. Because of what you did, I was a captive in a foreign land. For the last twelve years, I have been feeling sorry for myself. But not anymore. I would not trade it for anything else. Before Reza took me from Calormen, I was foolish and spoiled. I thought my world was unshakable. When Reza took me to Erizad, I learned how to respect authority, and I learned to love people whom I once regarded as my enemies. And while I wish they had never taught me anything about the Man Aslan, I can help them overcome their fear, because I had the same fear. And when I fell ill with the Red Death, I cared for the sick and dying—enough to carry on with my mission. And I will tell you something else, Beresh: Even your attacks on Erizad can be used for greater good than any of us ever imagined. Erizad has been stubborn and foolish—I will grant you that. Not even the Lion has been able to shake us out of our ignorance. As terrible as your attacks have been, they might be the only thing that can set us right. What happened in Rasul could be a warning, that our doom is imminent unless we act. Don't you see, brother? He is just using you to accomplish something bigger and better than what has gone on before. That is why I am falling in with Aslan—because though I do not understand all that is happening, for the first time in my life I am beginning to trust him. After all that has happened, Aslan has put me in a position to rescue three countries from _you._ He will rescue me from you. And if he doesn't, I will still refuse to pay you homage. You can kill me, torture me, expose me to the Red Death—you can hurt me any way you like—but I will not do your bidding."

Beresh growled, and the crystal in his necklace began to glow again.

All Faraji had time to do was widen his eyes. The crystal flashed red, and Faraji collapsed to the floor. His whole body felt as though it had been lit on fire. The pain made his ears beat so loudly, he was deaf to his own screaming. He never knew how much time had passed, but just as he had lost his voice, the pain went away. Sweat covered him from head to paw, and he writhed and trembled in shock as he whimpered.

"You fool," said Beresh. "You cannot hope to challenge me. You tried to save Erizad, and you failed. And now, brother, you will never trouble me again—"

And without warning, he fell silent.

Faraji waited for Beresh to do something, but nothing happened. The crystal in Beresh's necklace dimmed and went dark, and he started to pant and his legs went all wobbly.

In an instant, Faraji knew what was happening. He bounded to all fours, and his stomach leapt into his throat. Two lines of blood started to ooze out of Beresh's nose. Drops started beading down his chin. His eyes were wide with terror, and his forehead was matted with sweat.

"Help me!"

But Saheeb and Zareenah said nothing. With horror and sorrow on their faces, they backed away, then spun about and broke into a run.

"No!" said Beresh. "Don't leave me!"

"Brother, it's all right," said Faraji. "I can find the medicine. I can help you—"

Beresh scowled at him and shoved him to the floor. After that, it was as though the two had been dropped into a tumble dryer. It was a twirling, spinning knot of tails and legs and spotted heads with their fangs out, and blood from Beresh's nose and mouth flew through the air, when all of a sudden the doors swung open and hit the wall with a mighty crash as four men charged into the corridor.

Saheeb and Zareenah burst into a run, leaping at the men's faces. The soldiers nocked their arrows, and Saheeb, then Zareenah, went limp and toppled to the floor as arrows plunged into their chests. And all was once again still, save for the sound of Beresh groaning and giving a wet cough.

"We heard you up here," said Darin. In his hand was the medicine from Faraji's saddle. "Are you all right?"

"I am, but he's not. _Mehan,_ he needs help!"

"So do those who deserve to live," said Darin. He knelt down and brought the necklace around Faraji's head. "I will take him to the dungeon. Take this to the infirmary. Regan and the herbalists are waiting."

Faraji nodded and started to leave. Beresh glared at him before curling inward and coughing into the floor. Darin whipped the necklace off Beresh's neck and brought down his boot. The crystal gave a loud crack and a flash of blue light, and then it was no more. At that, Faraji turned around and descended the stairs.

* * *

 **King Peter** lurched forward and retched, and thick blood fell out of his nose and mouth. His trembling hand lifted the cloth to his face, but every move of his boil-covered arm made his arm scream in pain. The feeling of fire had filled every muscle and bone. His hand opened up on its own, dropping the blood-covered towel to the floor, and he hunched over and groaned in agony.

Peter was the closest to death, but no one else was far behind. Boils had erupted on everyone, and the blood that ran out their noses was thick and almost black. The beards of the men were red, and their clothes were stained.

A loud slam filled the room, and all eyes turned to the doorway. The door banged against the wall, and Faraji burst through with a necklace bobbing to and fro. "I have it! Regan, the formula is two parts goldenrod and two parts yarrow with three parts of my medicine—"

"No," said the black-haired man. "That's too much. It has to be one part of each."

"That's not enough! If you do that, the Queen's cordial will neutralize it."

"This formula has been handed down for three generations. It works on wounds."

"Not on a disease!" said Faraji. "If you go ahead with your recipe, everyone will start bleeding again. My medicine will strengthen the effects of the goldenrod and the yarrow and it will stop the disease."

Regan turned to King Lune. "Your Highness!"

Lune grunted in pain, then looked Regan in the face. "Do what he says."

Regan stared slack-jawed at him for a moment, then gathered himself and spun back to Faraji. "If this doesn't work—"

"Then we can refine it. Now I count eighty people in this room except for us. Pour out twenty-four drops of goldenrod, twenty-four drops of yarrow, thirty-six drops of my medicine, and one drop of the cordial."

Regan turned to the other herbalists. "Do it."

And at once, the herbalists reached for the droppers, filling them up to the cap. Drop by drop, the potions landed in the little cups as Faraji counted in silence. Everyone's lips were moving as the cups grew full, and then, as Peter cried out and held his hand to his chest, Faraji watched five drops of the Queen's cordial fall into their own cup.

"That's it! Hurry!"

Regan mixed the medicines in a single cup. He squeezed the bulb of the dropper until the pipe was full with rose-colored potion, and he spun around and rushed to Peter. Regan held the dropper in his quaking fingers, and a bead of potion broke free and landed on a boil in Peter's arm.

There was a cry of pain, and nothing happened.

The herbalists started squeezing the medicine into the droppers and spread about the room, but everyone else's eyes were on Peter. He sat hunched over with a hand still clutching his belly. His breath was ragged and shallow, and blood still pattered onto the floor.

And then it stopped.

Without warning, Peter's eyes lit up. The boils on his arm began to fade. He wiped a hand across his nose; no more blood came. His forehead stopped glistening with sweat, and his breath grew stronger and his chest swelled. And when he sat upright, he lifted his hand from his belly and looked about the room. Like stars coming out in the darkening sky, faces began to light up as murmurs filled the room. And as more faces flushed with color and the smiles turned to laughs, the whole room was filled with noise. And when the last man had stopped bleeding and rose from the floor, Faraji caught himself smiling.

 _By the Lion,_ he said to himself. _It_ _worked._

And as his ears swiveled amid the laughter and the sighs of relief, Faraji's ears tilted. The heavy clopping of hooves came from outside. Standing in the doorway were a horse and a cheetah, and she hopped down from Philip's back and said, "Dear, dear brother!"

"Whinny-inny!" said Philip. "Hurrah!"

Faraji drew in a shaky breath and bowed his head in relief, and the room was filled with the sound of Faraji's name. The cheetah turned to Aslan and looked the cat in the face; no words were shared, but Aslan knew what was meant.

* * *

 **Beresh sulked** as blood oozed out his nose. All four legs were clapped in shackles. As the heavy dungeon doors groaned open, Faraji and King Peter (who had changed into fresh clothes) and Aslan padded inside. Beresh licked the blood away from his face but refused to give them a glance.

"We found a cure," said Faraji. "We want to give it to you."

Beresh gave no indication that he had heard.

The High King stepped forward and knelt down, and he pulled a little glass cup from his coat. A drop of medicine beaded in the bottom of the cup.

"Here," said Peter. But that was all he had time to say.

Beresh snarled and batted the cup out of his hand. The glass shattered against a stone pillar, and the medicine disappeared into the dirt.

Peter stared in alarm at Beresh, and the cheetah glared at him. "Do you think I am a fool? If you healed me, you would execute me. Mark my words, barbarian: You will not have that honor. It is Tash, the irresistible, the inimitable— _he_ will bring me to health. He will break these chains. He will reward me for my suffering. When his power falls upon me, I will destroy Erizad and Narnia once and for all. I am Beresh, the Tisroc of Calormen (may I live forever), and the world will—"

But he said nothing more. Without warning, his face went all miserable, and he turned away and gave a wet cough. Peter turned his face away he heard blood drip onto the floor.

"Brother, please," said Faraji.

But Beresh said nothing else. He hung his head and grunted in pain.

Faraji swung around to face Aslan, but the Lion shook his head. "There is nothing we can do for him," he said. "Even if we heal him and pardon him for his crimes, it would not change his heart. He has chosen evil for so long that if King Lune set him free, your brother would go back to his old ways."

Faraji turned back to Beresh. "I can't accept that."

"Had I been a younger man when all this was happening, I wouldn't have, either," said Peter. "But this seems to be the way of things. We have magic that heals wounds and a Lion who brings statues back to life, but we have nothing for a heart like the heart of your brother."

Faraji sighed. The longer he stared at Beresh, the more he realized Peter was right. But a slight smile lifted his whiskers. "By trying to kill me twelve years ago, my brother set into motion a story—one that, despite all the evil and suffering that have happened, might be doing us all some good. And in that story, a spoiled cheetah prince was taken to Erizad, and he became someone better because of it. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . the prince's brother could have changed, as well, if someone had given him the chance."

For a moment, the dungeon was silent, and then a noise from afar made Faraji's ears swivel. Far away, a gate groaned open, and birds flapped their wings from on high.

At that, Peter turned to Faraji. "It's time."

Faraji nodded and started to turn about. But he paused, taking one last look at Beresh. There was no sign of acknowledgement, not even a glance in Faraji's direction. Faraji wanted to say something, but every word that started to form in his mouth seemed empty now. With a sigh, he turned about and broke his gaze away, and he followed Peter and Aslan out of the dungeon.

* * *

 **Faraji and Peter** flanked Aslan as the Lion turned left toward the courtyard. As it spun into view, Faraji saw that a crowd had gathered. Philip, Nazeen, Aravis, Lasaraleen, the Kings and Queens of the North, and Prince Cor had all gathered around a table where a map had been unrolled. A dozen eagles stood on the face of the table, and the largest one (who even Faraji could tell was their leader) spread his large wings and landed in front of him. "I am Adler, captain of the First Convocation of Narnia. One of my kings told me what has happened: that the monster who tried to kill all the nobles of the North is now trying to spread the disease across your country."

"Yes, _mehan."_

"Then my men and I are at your service. But before we depart, we will need your help. None of our maps show Erizad in the detail we need."

Faraji jumped atop the table as Adler flew up to the edge. As Faraji reached for the inkwell and grabbed a quill between two clawed fingers, he turned to Philip and Nazeen. "Are you both well?"

Philip snorted. He looked as though he had been crying, but he did not show it. "Well, I got turned to stone," he said with a light whinny. "And it was rather boring."

But Nazeen blinked tears away. "Is it true? Is Beresh really alive?"

Faraji nodded.

"How could they do this to us?"

"I have a better idea of it now. Beresh thinks he is in the service of Tash. When King Peter tried to give him the medicine, he refused it. He said Tash would deliver him from this illness and make him the next Tisroc. Everything they have done has been for their own gain, dear sister; they tasted power and never had enough of it. And I suppose that was what would have happened if I had never been taken to Erizad. I might never have learned that lesson."

And no more was said of the matter as Faraji turned to the map on the table.

It took only minutes for Faraji to draw in the features of Erizad—the river that flowed south out of Calormen; the northern towns (including Rasul); the great city of Palar, and the old fortress outside it; the great cities of Arkanaz and Barát and Ansar, and the dunes and the Five Towns in the far south (which were just off the map, so Faraji drew them in the margins); and old ruins and great dunes and oases and dried-up rivers, and dozens of other features that turned the blank southern third of the map into something that Adler and his eagles could use. And when they had seen the landmarks they needed, Faraji laid the pen back into the inkwell.

There was a pause, and the bright green robe of King Lune caught the corner of his eyes. "Before you leave," said Lune, "I want to thank you for saving our lives. Were it not for you and your wits, I'm sure every one of us would be dead by now."

Faraji bowed his head. "You almost died because of me. If I had left my parents in Calormen, the _balik_ might never have arrived. Or if I had just stood my ground when my parents accused me, I might have been able to stop them."

"That is more than any of us know," said Lune. "Your brother and your parents were resourceful. I am certain they would have found another way to dispose of us. What matters is that you were here to save our lives. I speak for all of us when I say Narnia and Archenland are in your debt."

"So am I," said Lasaraleen. By now, Aravis was beside her. "You saved my life . . . and I get to see my best friend again."

"You all are kind," said Faraji, "but it is _I_ who am in your debt. Without the Queen's cordial, none of this would be possible. Upon my honor, I will see to it that the cordial is replenished. However difficult it is to find those fireflowers, I will find them . . ."

Faraji was about to add a promise, but he heard something thick and wet land in the grass. It could not have been rain; the sky was filled with stars. And when he heard something like a whinny and a sniffle, Faraji felt his heart sink.

"Philip?" he said gently. "What's wrong?"

The horse sniffled. "Oh, bother it all. I have been trying to hide my feelings, but I must speak my mind. Spotted one, I will miss you. We have known each other a short time, and in that time I have grown fond of you. Whenever your sister and I will cross paths, I will think of how you saved our lives in Tashbaan. Whenever I see the soldiers of Anvard and the Kings and Queens in their health, I will think about how you saved their lives. And whenever I see someone who speaks as though he swallowed a book, the first cheetah I will think of is you."

Faraji chuckled. It was all he could do to keep from crying. "Philip, I have never met anyone like you. After everything we have been through, I will never be able to put you out of my mind. I have lived in Erizad for twelve years, among people who prided themselves on their courage and wisdom, but when I go back there, I will look for your courage and wisdom in the faces of everyone I see. And even though we had met because of my father's treachery, I am convinced that your arrival in Erizad was the work of Aslan himself. I could not have survived this journey without you, and I am better for meeting you. And though this will sound like a play on words, I will say it: You are the best example of horse sense that I have ever met."

Philip let out a soft nicker and padded the ground with his hoof. "You are too kind, spotted one. And I just want you to know that you will always be a friend of Narnia and the North."

A pause, and Faraji smiled and blinked tears away. "Thank you, _mehan."_

Philip's eyes filled with awe, and he raised his angular head. The silence around them grew even more profound. No one in the North had ever heard a word of Erizadi before, but everyone knew what it meant, and Philip would later say it was the grandest thing he had ever been called.

After a pause, Faraji sniffled and took in a breath. "It's time." And he crouched down upon Adler's back. The great bird unfolded his wings and leapt off the ground, and the rest of the eagles followed behind. A great V formed in the moonlit sky, drifting south beneath the stars, and the Kings and Queens of Narnia and the North, and their friends and visitors beside, watched in silence.

Philip blinked away big tears that plashed on the ground in front of his hooves. With a quavering breath, he said something so quietly that only Aslan could hear it.

"Farewell, _mehan."_

* * *

 **Faraji fell asleep** to the sound of the eagles' wings. When he awoke, the sun had risen and cast long shadows over the streets of Palár. Adler said, "This is it. Go!" and the rest of the eagles scattered. Faraji did not need to get his bearings to know where they were headed—south, to Arkanaz and the Five Towns, southeast to Barát and Ansar, and west to the cities that sat upon the riverbank.

Adler tilted downward, and Faraji gripped the bird's muscled sides as the ground rose to meet them. The eagle slowed with three great beats of his wings, and Faraji loped onto the sett stones and turned to face him. Faraji, who had hardly been at a loss for words before, could not find enough words to express his gratitude. But Adler understood and nodded in reply.

Faraji padded away at once. There was no time to waste. All around, he heard people coughing and crying in pain. As he rounded the corner, a crowd of people spun into view. All were bleeding, and some had boils on their faces. And when the Mareshah left the corridor, and his wife and sons bleeding and with boils on their faces, the silence was even thicker.

He felt relief rush through him—Reza had not fallen ill. But the cheetah felt his heart sink. Tears were glistening in Reza's eyes, and his mouth was open in surprise and grief. He did not say the words, but Faraji knew what they meant. _I am sorry._

Faraji felt a whole rush of memories rush back to him—how Reza had used a whip on him and the boys, how he had lied to him and threatened him with the wrath of Aslan, how he had sent Faraji north after receiving a fake letter from Narnia—but none of that mattered now.

The cheetah bowed his head (after all, Reza was still his master), then looked in him in the face and said:

"I have the medicine _._ "

* * *

 **Everything after that** was a blur. Reza slung the necklace around his neck, and he walked up and down a row of soldiers. Each drop was laid on a boil or dropped into a mouth. After that, he gave the medicine to his wife, then his sons, then a row of civilians. All eyes stared at the soldiers, waiting for something to change. A few people said it was a lie and the medicine was no good—but then, before they realized what was happening, something changed. Boils began to clear, blood stopped oozing out of their noses and mouths, the pale and nauseated faces flushed with color once again, the sweat disappeared from their heads, their eyes grew merry and bright, and the whole courtyard was filled with laughs of delight and wonder. Some started to cry, but the tears showed relief and gratitude beyond words. Others sat with open-mouthed amazement, not knowing if they could believe it.

Reza turned to the soldiers. "Yassir! Go to the base. Get as many canteens as you can find."

"Right away, _mehan."_

"All of you will help me distribute the medicine. Bashir, how many people are at the university?"

"We counted fifteen thousand."

"Esmail, how many are in the old school?"

"At least four thousand."

"Marwan, how many are at the old palace?"

"We didn't do a thorough count," said the clean-shaven man, "but we counted five thousand in the house, and the courtyard was full."

"All right," said Reza. "Bashir, you and your men will take half of this to the university. Esmail, you and your men will take one fourth to the jail. Marwan, you and your men will take one eighth to the old house. I will keep the rest in reserve."

And just as he said that, Yassir dashed around the corner. A sack full of canteens clattered and clanged as he laid them on the road. Soon, the medicine was poured into them, and the soldiers dispersed as Reza and Yassir went up and down the courtyard. Before Faraji knew it, the crowds had started to file out, and soon the street was bustling again.

An hour had gone by, and the last family left the courtyard. Faraji and Reza started to turn down the thoroughfare, but something caught their attention. It was a crowd of men, all clothed in the black robes of the Order of Aslan, and they had just come from the corner of the plaza. Their faces were covered with boils, and darker blood framed their mouths and chins. They bowed their heads in deference, but their eyes still stared at him, hoping for help. Reza told them to step forward and gave them each a drop of the medicine, and nothing more was said.

And noon came and went.

If you had never been to Erizad before now, you would know that everyone was always grave, that public displays of any strong emotion were improper. But it was not so now. Men and beasts began to trickle out of the university, then the jail and courtyard, and then the old palace, and soon the trickle was a stream. By the middle of the afternoon, the whole city was filled with cheers and cries of joy. Men and beasts smiled and laughed, and hugs were given even among strangers. And as the afternoon passed, the whole city spread out, taking water and rags up and down the streets and pouring out buckets of water to clean every building and road covered in the dust. There was a tense mood threatening to overtake them, as many were thinking about what would happen if they breathed in the dust. But those conversations lasted less than a minute, because someone was always nearby to say, "We have medicine." And that lifted the mood all over again.

By nightfall, every isolation zone was empty, and the streets were full. Torches were lit, food and drink were given out to crowds, songs were sung to the Lion (with the occasional verse about Faraji and Reza and his army), and almost no one could sleep that night. Reza and Faraji had slipped away and slumped against the front doors of the house. It was only for a moment's rest, they said—and before they could warn one another, they had already fallen asleep.

* * *

 **Reza could not** help but smile. It all seemed too good to be true. "Am I to understand that no one in Arkanaz died?"

"Indeed, Sir," said Adler. "In Barát, Ansar, the Five Towns, the villages in the Far South—it's all the same. Every one of my men and I are reporting a complete and total reversal of the Red Death. Your soldiers and my men counted thirty-eight thousand cases throughout Erizad, and not one of them ended in death."

Reza shook his head. "Incredible," he said. "Adler, I don't know how to thank you all—"

"There is no need, Sir," said the eagle. "We are friends. Besides, none of this could have been done without Faraji or you. As I understand it, you sent him to us. He was the one who knew what to do. Without him, our leaders would have died, and Calormen might very well have conquered us."

Faraji flushed a little. Two days of constant gratitude and compliments from everyone around, and he still drooped his head in embarrassment.

Adler turned to one of his eagles, and the bird trotted forward with a piece of paper in its bill. "Faraji, this came for you," said Adler. "We met a courier on our way out of Rasul."

Faraji thanked him with a nod and pried the seal away with a claw.

 _To Faraji, jamira of Reza Munir, recipient of the Red Diamond for excellence in battle, and a friend of Narnia and the North:_

 _Greetings to you from Anvard._

 _Firstly, allow us to once again extend our gratitude. You saved our lives and rescued Narnia and the North from disaster. Every life that was saved yesterday is in your debt._

 _Secondly, we want you to know that your brother is finally and truly dead. He changed his mind and accepted the medicine, and after he recovered, he stood trial before our governments. He confessed to the charges against him and pledged allegiance to Tash and Calormen; after his sentencing, he was executed for his crimes._

 _Thirdly,_ _Philip wanted me to pass along his greetings, and to tell you that no matter what you may think of yourself, you are a better warrior and a braver cheetah than your brother was._ _ _Your brother could not withstand the disease for even a few hours; but y_ ou endured its torture, you suffered through one of your brother's spells, you overcame your fears of the Man Aslan, and you accomplished a deed that saved two countries. Philip's words are also our own: Never forget who you are and what you have become._

 _Finally, once you are a friend of Narnia, you are always a friend of Narnia. When you are given leave, please know that you, Reza, and any friend who accompanies you will be welcome at Cair Paravel._

 _By the Lion,_

 _High King Peter the Magnificent  
King Edmund the Just  
Queen Susan the Gentle  
Queen Lucy the Valiant  
_

Faraji was silent for a long while. He nudged it to Reza, who read the letter several times over and smiled a little more each time.

"It is true," said Reza. "You have changed—more than you realize."

"But the letter is much too kind, _mehan._ It says nothing about the mistakes I made."

"I think we both have to live with what we did," said Reza. "You and I have been given the opportunity to do great things, but we also made choices that were less than heroic—they were downright terrible, by any measure. But there was something the Lion told me when he came here: He still had a task for me. I was not perfect before, and I have not been perfect since, but he still had good work for me to do. Even now, I think he still does."

With that, he turned and stared down the thoroughfare. At the end of the road sat the ruins of Andur. The royal house looked as though a giant had trampled on it; only a few of the walls and pillars stood, and everything else was rubble and dust.

"When the house was built," said Reza, "it was supposed to be a fortress where the whole country could gather in times of war. But Erizad grew, and the pride of our Sarazens grew; soon, the house became a symbol of power and security. Some had said that as long as Andur stood, Erizad would never fall. And then Moro—er, Beresh—came to Erizad. He used our own fears of the Man Aslan against us. Whenever we look at what is left of Andur, that is what I hope we remember: that we believed in fear and lies, and it almost destroyed our country."

Faraji let out a sigh and kept gazing at the ruins.

"May we never make that mistake again."


	18. The Horse and His Cheetah

_**A/n:**_ _Go figure! We have reached the end of this story—one that challenged my writing abilities at every turn—and the ending is the easiest chapter of all. I don't know why. Maybe I knew I had to wrap things up. Maybe everything was falling into place. Maybe it was because I spent less time second-guessing myself than usual. In any case, I am happy with the ending._

 _On an unrelated note: The events of_ The Greatest of Fears _were not inspired by_ Narnia. _Actually, many were_ _inspired by a favorite (and very unrelated) TV show. I am curious to know if anyone saw the parallels. If you did and you leave a comment with the correct TV show and season, I will update this author's note so that it mentions your name. (It's like How Ridiculous's YouTube channel: "We'll pin ya!")  
_

* * *

ONE YEAR LATER…

 **Faraji loped up the stairs** and let out a sigh of relief. With a nod, he smiled at Kalil. Summer in Erizad was no pleasant thing; the late afternoon heat was strong enough to steal the breath out of your chest. And yet, there was no better time of day than now. All errands and matters of business for the day were done, the Assembly had adjourned for the weekend, and the two cheetahs stood guard as they waited for the Sarazen to return home. Above their heads, the new flags of Erizad danced in the breeze—a gold lion marching across a blue field. And Faraji was tense with excitement. There was one request he had to ask, and today was the day. It was the proper thing to do.

"Be still," said Kalil with a chuckle. He lapped water out of an alabaster bowl between his paws. "I'm sure Philip and Nazeen are fine."

"I would rather go up there and remove all doubt," said Faraji. "The night I left, she looked as though she were at a funeral. And Philip hasn't answered my letters in the last nine months. Something has happened to them—I know it."

Kalil nodded. "Well, the Sarazen will return soon enough. Then you can put in your request."

Faraji started to reply, but something caught his attention. Adan and his cheetah, Safa, had just turned off the thoroughfare and started walking up the stairs.

Faraji could not stop marveling at the change in the man. He had once looked so nervous, he seemed to be hunting for a place to hide. Now, as with most everyone in Erizad now, he stood confident and at ease.

Faraji smiled. "Adan, that uniform becomes you."

The man grinned. "Thank you, my friend. And now that my training is complete, the Mareshah needs to give me a mission."

Kalil nodded. "I'm certain you both won't have long to wait. The Order of Aslan is still about, and they are bound and determined to cause trouble."

"Agreed," said the man. "But I survived the Red Death and saw the Lion with my own eyes. I'm not afraid of them or any man."

Faraji smiled warmly and turned to Safa. "I see you have that book I asked for."

Safa swung his head over his shoulder. A book sat in his saddle. "And you must know, my friend, that I am loath to give it up." _  
_

Kalil tilted his head. "What book are we talking about?"

"Only the most famous book in the country: _A Thousand Years of Narnia."_

"It is more than famous," said Adan. "There are so many demands for it, our scribes are working day and night to produce new copies."

"Until then," said Safa, "we are all required to read it with haste, which is unfortunate given what a masterpiece this is. _"  
_

"And I assume that there is a coffer dedicated to paying those scribes," said Kalil, "and that the sales from the book will go directly to the author."

Faraji nodded. "Indeed. From what I hear, it _is_ a masterpiece. It should be, as Tumnus spent eighteen years writing it and knows more than anyone else about Narnia. An endeavor like that deserves recognition, and no mistaking that." At that, Faraji turned to Adan. "On to business, my friend. Are there any letters?"

"Only a message," said Adan. "The Sarazen wanted me to tell you he's asking for you."

On cue, Faraji bounded to all fours. "Kalil, would you watch things here."

"Of course. It will give me time to read this masterwork."

With that, Kalil crouched over the book and flipped open the cover. Faraji bade Adan and Safa a goodbye and padded down the stairs, and his gait rose to a merry trot.

* * *

 **Reza's face** was solemn as Faraji spoke. " _M_ _ehan,_ I am worried for them. I'm the only family my sister has. And Philip has not answered my letters in the last nine months. After all he has done, it is only proper for me to see if he is all right."

Reza nodded. "I know. But until we find a reprieve, I need everyone I can spare. The Order of Aslan is threatening the followers of the Lion; even without the Calormenes, plenty of Erizadi still believe in the Man Aslan—many more than we thought."

There was a knock at the door, and Reza lifted his head. "Come."

It was the Mareshah. "I am sorry to interrupt, _mehan,_ but we have guests. They came in on the eight o'clock transport."

"Thank you, Yassir." At that, he rose up from the desk. "Were we expecting any guests today?"

"Not that I'm aware of," said Faraji. "Who are they?"

Yassir smiled. "I think you should see for yourselves."

Faraji nodded and followed Reza, who followed Yassir out of the office. As the three wove through the dim stone halls, Faraji kept fighting the urge to say something. It was clear Yassir would say nothing more, and Reza was not going to inquire.

They made another turn, and they saw the morning sun shining through the doorjamb. On cue, the soldiers standing guard pushed the door open, and Faraji and Reza and Yassir strode onto the thoroughfare. The cheetah squinted down the street, his mouth open with curiosity—and then he felt a smile filling his face as his heart jumped in his chest. He wanted to dash over to them, but the cheetah in the saddle did it first. She leapt out and dashed over to them as she said:

"Dear, dear brother!"

"Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA!" said the horse. "Greetings, spotted one!"

"How glad I am to see you both!" said Faraji. "But are you all right?"

"We are now," said Nazeen. "Oh, Haroshta, we have so much to tell you, and most of it is awful."

"Indeed," said Philip. "The whole of Narnia has lost its mind, not to mention its head."

Faraji's face fell. "What do you mean?"

"Nine months ago, we were chasing the White Stag through the woods. All of a sudden we came to a most familiar place, and they went further in. So they did—and that was the last I saw of them."

"But . . . what does that mean? Are they dead?"

"No, and I can say that much. Aslan was the one who took them back. He said it was time for them to return to their world."

Faraji nodded. "At least they're safe. So what happens now?"

"No one knows. They have no heirs, none of them wrote a will, and the descendants of Frank and Helen are dead or missing."

"Well, that's no problem. They can just appoint Aslan."

"Oh, you would think so. But Narnia doesn't want him. They insist on ruling themselves without any help from him, and being the sort of leader he is, he can only grant their request. As of now, the thrones of Cair Paravel are prizes to be won."

"But surely Narnia doesn't want anarchy."

"Not at all," said Nazeen. "Everyone wants a leader—as long as they are the ones doing the leading. Philip tried to bring every race together: all the lions, tigers, panthers, wolves, the naiads and dryads—everyone. He wanted all of Narnia to agree on a king who would lead them rightly. But the only thing they agreed to do was remove Philip from the council."

"And Nazeen warned them they might become strong and cruel like Calormen if they persisted in their folly. They wouldn't hear the end of it. They told her to leave and never come back, and they said I would do well to join her."

Faraji chuckled darkly. "Philip, what happened? They've rejected Aslan, they've thrown you both out of the country—this is not the Narnia I saw last year."

"Nay," said the horse. "It was what they were all along. Most of us didn't want Aslan; we just wanted the favors. And now that he's taken away the best thing to happen to Narnia, Narnia is rejecting him."

Faraji let out a breath. "I am sorry."

"But we're not," said Nazeen. "Dear brother, this is where we want to be."

"You mean—?"

The horse gave a happy neigh. "Yes, my friend. We are here to stay."

"Haroshta, when you rescued us from Mirradin, it left an impression on me. I want to do what you do."

"So do I," said Philip. "Spotted one, Aslan puts events in our lives that change our hearts. Traveling with you on a mission of mercy and justice brought life back into my bones, much more than I ever got chasing a White Stag and rolling in the grass of Narnia. I might have lived and died happy in Narnia, but I think there is a better ending to be written for us in Erizad."

Faraji started to smile, but feared it would look improper. And yet, a full smile came. "I could not be more pleased," he said. "Hurrah!"

Yassir smiled. "And you both could not have come at a better time. Today is the first anniversary of our deliverance from the Red Death. There is going to be a feast at the old palace, and I want you both to be our guests of honor."

Reza nodded. "At the feast, I want to personally grant you both citizenship. And Philip, I want to personally commend you in front of the Assembly and the nobles of Erizad, to bestow upon you the award that the Marehafa bestowed upon me and Faraji: the Golden Lion for exemplary service and courage. Erizad owes you a debt for what you did in Rasul and how you discovered the truth about the Red Death."

Philip and Nazeen thanked him and started to bow. But Reza pushed out a hand. "Just as it is with Faraji and my wife and my sons, it will be with you: You do not bow before me. You are family."

Philip neighed softly. "Well, at least I will call you _mehan_. As Faraji might say, it is the proper thing to do."

* * *

 **Philip's words** about a happy ending in Erizad came true: Indeed, all could say they lived happily ever after. Faraji and Reza, who had already been less fearful and stern, became as good and generous and kind as anyone in Erizad had ever known.

Faraji returned to the University of Palár and eventually became a full professor in natural and magical medicines, a post he held in those long stretches when Erizad was at peace. In times of war, he joined Reza and his men in battle, and they would return victorious, enough to surpass every Sarazen and army that came before them. True to his word, Reza would not let Andur be rebuilt. Its ruins stood as a monument to Moro's attacks, and everyone who passed them would know what happened. Besides, Reza was glad to live in the Mareshah's house—it was less space to keep, anyway—and Yassir was more than pleased to live in the old palace, to make it a home and a house of government.

Philip, who had once had a reputation for blustering at length, became one of the Assembly's most sought-after speakers, and when Erizad was at peace and the Order of Aslan was nothing but a bad memory, he said he would bluster for a living. He became a professor of Northern literature and culture, the only Erizadi who could speak with authority on Narnia (and whose classes were always full).

Nazeen had been ridiculed for wanting to fight in battle, but even the men put a stop to the ridicule when they all saw she had her brother's strength and wits, and the silence was even more profound on the day she stood beside Philip and both received the Red Diamond for excellence in battle. None of her critics spoke a word when she earned the Golden Lion for exemplary service and courage (which, as any Erizadi would tell you, was not given to just any warrior, and certainly not for the asking). Even as a warrior, she still heard rebukes and taunts, but one cheetah found her to be an extraordinary and ravishing creature, and you can imagine his delight when she had the same sort of feelings for him. And of course you can imagine how glad Faraji was to have a brother in-law, Kalil, one who went on bantering with him on those sweltering afternoons when they stood guard at the Sarazen's house.

Faraji and Philip remained bachelors and warriors and friends all their lives, and together they watched Erizad grow and cities be born and battles be fought and won (especially those where the two of them were in the thick). Reza's sons grew and went to university, and they became men of high standing in Erizad. Navid, who accompanied Faraji and Philip on a journey to the mountains of the sun, would become a soldier and warrior, and would go on to rule over Arkanaz as its Mareshah. Rafik, who had the sort of head that always looked for the highest of rightness and truth and stopped at nothing until he found it, would become the Sarazen.

And there was one thing that Faraji would always insist. Though Philip and Nazeen were much loved in Erizad, and though Erizad had once again become known as the Narnia of the South, now and then some man or tiger or cheetah would come up to him with a most indignant face. They acted as if they knew something Faraji didn't, and with a look of insufferable arrogance they would say, "You expect me to call that horse _mehan?_ You expect me to call that cheetah _meha?_ And on top of it all, you expect me to bow before the Lion and call him _mehan?"_

And Faraji would nod and say:

"Of course. It is the proper thing to do."

THE END

* * *

 _ **A/n:** Writing a 90,000-word novel can feel like sculpting a statue. You start with a shapeless slab, and you chisel away everything that isn't part of your design. At first, you feel euphoric: That thing in front of you is starting to look like something. But then, as you cut away more of the stone, you start to wonder if you have been doing this the right way all along. Before you realize it, you have spent an embarrassing amount of time holding the hammer over that chisel. You know that the next thing you do will affect the rest of the shape from here on. For all you know, you might even ruin the piece. But you can't stop now. You refuse. You have to cut away another piece of rock, just to see what the shape looks like. And all the while, despite the toil and sweat and second-guessing and the huge risk of making a bad choice, you're having a hell of a good time._

 _That, my friends, is what it felt like to write_ The Greatest of Fears.

 _This story is the first novel- or novella-length piece I have finished in thirteen years. The whole idea of a cheetah being scared of Aslan and being sent on a journey to the country of the king he fears the most—that was the only story idea, out of many I have considered in the last thirteen years, that took off. Better yet, t_ _his story grew into something bigger and more exciting than I ever intended._ _The original tale was supposed to be a much simpler thing—Faraji goes to Narnia, finds out Aslan isn't anyone to be scared of, and goes back home, bringing Narnian medicine to heal a sick child._

 _Obviously, that all didn't happen. Instead:_

 _(1) A disease became the biggest character of the story. First, the Red Death was never supposed to be in this story at all. Second, it was originally a cliffhanger—something to end a fairly uneventful chapter—but it eventually it became a character in its own right. It had the biggest influence over everything Faraji, Philip, Reza, and Narnia and the North did, and it filled everything with danger and fear and urgency. Besides, it's an illness that brings excruciating death to over 95% of its victims, and it's a weapon that an entire nation thinks is the wrath of its god. How could that_ not _become a character?_

 _(2) Moro (a.k.a. Beresh) was never supposed to be in the story. When he showed up, I didn't expect him to be a villain. Originally, he was supposed to be everything Faraji was not: While Faraji served his masters, performed tasks beneath his lofty station, and went on a journey to help a sick child, Moro was rebellious, arrogant, and unfeeling. He had bad attitudes toward women and superiors, spied on Reza, and called for the execution of children. Oddly enough, by Chapter 5 I knew he would be the big bad of the story—though I didn't know (until Chapter 12) that he would blow up a six-story residence and use the blast to spread the Red Death._

 _(3) Rafik, the sick boy that Faraji went to get medicine for, was not supposed to die. Nor was Reza supposed to die. Nor was Aslan supposed to bound in glorious splendor and majesty to Palár, bring Reza and Rafik back to life, and announce that he was the true Aslan and that justice and truth were coming back to Erizad by Aslan making Reza something of an apostle Paul. Surprise!_

 _I could go on and on (and on). But you get the idea. This story turned out to be almost nothing like what I had imagined in my head. Instead, it turned out better. The complex story lines, the large cast of characters, the constant challenge to keep the story engaging and interesting—all while almost completely making it up as I go along—it has been a ball._

 _That said, I know this story is . . . imperfect. (And that's being VERY generous.) As I look back on it, I see just how much revision it needs. Some chapters are just weak. Some minor plot lines went unresolved. (I tried, but every attempt seemed either incredibly weak or a needless diversion from Faraji's misadventure.) And why did I try to sound like C.S. Lewis? I ought to sound like myself. For Heaven's sakes, these author's notes have been easier and more rewarding to write, because I am writing them in my voice._

 _Then again, I am an American thirty-something dude, and this story takes place in a world influenced by British culture and ancient mythology. It would be weird for my characters and narration to sound like my natural writing voice. I guess I was smart to try to make these characters sound somewhat native—but I'll tell you: It takes a lot of skill and practice to be able to pull it off._ _Snoopy (from Peanuts) said it well: Good writing is hard work!_

 _And whether or not my story was good writing (or simply mediocre or bad writing that took too much effort), that's not for me to say right now. I can say this, though: It was the first story I have finished in thirteen years. I am proud of what I did, if only because I did it._

 _There are a few folks who helped see this endeavor to its end. I want to give special thanks to **treehugger00, thunderbird shadow, Anonymousme,** and **PadrePedro** for their many reviews. Their feedback did one of the best things imaginable: inspire me. Their thoughts on each chapter planted seeds in my imagination, and the ideas that grew up out of that ground helped shape the story into something bigger and richer than I ever dreamed. Plus, their reactions to events and characters of the story not only excited and inspired me, but made the plot twists especially fun to write. (And to my amazement, some of those plot twists seemed to catch them by surprise. That showed me I was doing something right.)  
_

 _Finally, thank YOU. Thank you for taking the time to see what my story is made of. Thank you for reading my first ever Narnia fic and the first story I have completed in thirteen years. If it was a joy, I am glad. If it was not, you have my apologies.  
_

 _And now, I get to rejoice. This is the first story I have finished in over a decade, and I'm going to bask in the glow of that accomplishment. Meanwhile, I am going to take a much-needed break from writing._ _This site is an awesome place built on awesome ideas—writing in your favorite fictional universe and getting feedback from writers who love the universe as much as you do—but I am not ready to start a new story. I do have some ideas I'm tinkering with, but I want to take a break so I can think them through. And should I come back—which is a high certainty—I might be able to spin an even better Narnia fic._

 _Peace out, everyone._

 _John Jude Farragut_


End file.
